Harbor
by justcallmesmitty
Summary: [NOW COMPLETE!] Modern AU. Perhaps in one of the busiest, noisiest and most populous cities on this great planet, Mary Stuart will answer the questions that have evaded her for sixteen years: Who is Mary Stuart and where does she fit? Written for Fanforum's Francis/Mary thread's daily hiatus challenge prompt (No. 4). Frary. Multi-chapter. Rated T for adult themes; nothing explicit.
1. Prologue

**Harbor —  
**_noun: _a part of a body of water along the shore deep enough for anchoring a ship and so situated with respect to coastal features, whether natural or artificial, as to provide protection from winds, waves, and currents; such a body of water having docks or port facilities; any place of shelter or refuge.  
_verb_: to give shelter to, offer refuge to; to conceal, hide; keep or hold in the mind, maintain, entertain; to shelter (a vessel).

* * *

"Natalie, are you ready?" A voice calls from the hallway and Grace, my roommate, pops her shiny auburn head into view.

She takes stock of the boxes around me, my few possessions packed away for transport. I shake my head and point to the last box, which has yet to be sealed.

"Not yet. How long until we need to go?" Grace checks her watch, wrinkles her nose and presses her hand to her head. She hates calculating time, but I'm glad she's willing to attempt it for my sake.

"Um ... maybe twenty minutes? I don't want you to miss your train."

"That'll work," I respond. "Thanks, Grace."

"Sure thing. I still can't believe you're leaving. I'll have to come visit you sometime." She begins to ramble, so I point to the box again and put my best scolding face to work.

"All right, all right," she concedes, laughing and taking the hint. "I'll let you finish. We can talk on the way to the station."

I smile. As much as it will be difficult to say goodbye to Grace, nothing else ties me to Los Angeles. The time has come to move on, to finally start over for the last time.

A handful of items remain in my closet, ready to be dumped carelessly into the remaining box: A UCLA paperweight, a bound copy of my thesis that arrived two days ago, the sweater I wore yesterday and a few papers that I retrieved recently from my last professors. I move the items into the box, placing them systematically inside – stacked as neatly as possible.

One of the papers catches my eye. An elective. I picked it up but never read the professor's comments. Instead of adding it to the box, I place it on the bed next to my bag. I've been looking for things to read on the train. Maybe it will help me pass the time.

Maybe it will help me in other ways.

I grab the tape and stretch it across the box, taking care to line up the cardboard corners to prevent distortion, and stack it on top of the others next to the door. Everything in boxes.

Knowing Grace is eager to get going, I reach for my bag, my jacket and my suitcase, heading toward the doorway. That's all I need. I feel strange leaving most of my things behind, but I've done it before. Someone should be by later today to pick them up and move them for me.

"I'm ready, Grace," I yell toward her room. "Let's go!"

* * *

The train rolls beneath me, carrying me across the country. It seemed like a good idea to travel by train, to see the States this way, because I don't ever want to move again. I feel I'm leaving every version of myself behind me with each mile under the wheels – the sad part being that I don't even know what version of me I should be when I arrive in Manhattan.

I sigh, looking out at the passing landscape before pulling a few items from my bag: Eliot's _Middlemarch_, lip balm, my phone. Nothing appeals, so I put it all back. _Middlemarch_, while lovely, is full of lonely people; my lips don't need anything; and, of course, there's no one to call. My eyes fall on the paper I stuffed in there earlier.

Sociology 101.

What reason I had for taking an elective freshman survey class the last year of my five-year master's program still eludes me. I think I thought it would be easy and helpful in better understanding people and how they work in groups. Understanding people is key to communicating with them.

What I didn't expect was how the class would examine where I fit into the context of those people. Our final assignment: Evaluate yourself in light of your social groups and background.

An easy subject for most freshmen, perhaps, but a painful one for me. The assignment took weeks to craft, Grace finding me in my room night after night – agonizing over what to tell and how to tell it.

A piece of lint lies on the cover, so I brush it aside. Curiosity takes over as I wonder what my professor thought. Surely, she had never had a student write _that_ before. I open the cover, my eyes scanning over the title page. Before I can help myself, my fingers are already turning the page and I'm starting to read.

_To begin with, my name is not Natalie Lowell. The U.S. government created Natalie Lowell five years ago when I moved to Los Angeles to attend the University of California. In high school, others knew me as Julia Hartman; before that, Sophie Smith; and at the beginning of their attempts to hide me, my name was Amanda Burne._

_All of these incarnations are more real to me than Mary Stuart, who had both parents taken from her at age six. My father? Murdered by men from a competitor on the eve of his tech company going public. My mother? Insane, for all intents and purposes. My last memory of her involves watching the men drive her away while the U.S. Marshal stood at my side and held my hand. _

_Little remains of Mary Stuart._

_At least, I recall very little of my life before I became Amanda Burne. Finding my father, bleeding on his office floor? That I'll never be able to forget. My mother, screaming and unfit to care for me? Every inch of me runs cold at the thought. My father's kind eyes and the spin of the brown leather chair in the library at home? The Sacramento sunlight? Sand crunched between my toes when they took me to the beach? I suppose those are the few things I can never fully leave behind._

_For sixteen years, I have been a vessel adrift, finding harbor where I've been directed until the weather required me to move on to another port. Each of those harbors formed a sort of social group, I reckon, but none of them were permanent and I knew that – even at a young age._

_I docked in Connecticut shortly after my mother was relocated to a treatment center in San Francisco. They wanted me as far as possible from Sacramento and the men responsible, whom they couldn't locate. As a rare case at the age of six, I was placed into the protective custody of the Valois family – a mix of foster care and witness protection. For all intents and purposes, they were to be my family. _

_They welcomed me warmly, though I cannot say I remember much of my first few months. It was shelter, respite from the pressing tides. Everything was hazy, numb. I missed my parents, my home. Nothing seemed right._

_The one thing I do remember: The eyes of their youngest son, Francis. Clear blue. Patient. A beacon of hope in such a dark time. He would sit with me for hours, just waiting for me to speak and trying to find a game I'd be willing to play with him. In time, his efforts worked and life opened before me again. Of everyone I have met in sixteen years, he likely knew the real Mary Stuart. _

_I lived with Henry and Catherine for nearly three years, but they never treated me as an outsider. Theirs is an old family, and with that came family money. I had every privilege their other children had been given, but I was also disciplined as the others – particularly one afternoon when Francis and I had a pillow fight in his parents' bedroom._

_When I was nine, two of the three men responsible for my father's death were caught and stood trial. Because I had found my father's body, I had to testify. My location, my current identity, had been compromised, and so Sophie Smith walked into an elementary school in Denver the next week._

_I have felt adrift since. _

The paper falls to my lap, my finger catching my place and holding it as the train pulls under a tunnel. The lights flicker, the walls empty. We emerge again into the sunlight and I remember Grace's last words before I left.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Natalie."

I hope I do, too.

My hands lift the paper back up to continue reading. I might as well try to figure out what I'm looking for before I get there.

_I struggled with my placement in Denver. They loved me, I'm sure, but it wasn't the same. I missed the Valois family: Henry, Catherine, Elisabeth and Francis. I understood by then that I had to be Sophie Smith, regardless of what happened. It became a personal challenge to make each identity its own. Sophie liked the color pink, dreamt of unicorns and wanted to be a princess when she grew up. I read away my time in Denver, burying myself in Montgomery and Alcott and Lewis. Any world other than my own would do. The years passed and I continued to be a model child and student. I was alive but not really thriving, so they chose to move me again in hopes that I might find a better fit with the Hartman family in Kansas City. _

_By the time I sailed into Kansas City, I realized I could be whoever I wanted to be and I decided I wanted to be like my father – intelligent, capable, studious, kind. My teen years became a quest for utility and preparing for college, where I could finally be free of the family side of my protective arrangement. I wanted to be in charge of finding my next harbor. I was the quintessential student, my nose in books and my head in my AP classes, but I didn't have many friends. None of them could know who I really was anyway. _

_As if recognizing I was on the cusp of finally attaining my freedom, the last man the feds were looking for was spotted at my graduation. They moved me right after the ceremony was done. My belongings were stored while they figured out what to do with me. I didn't even get to celebrate the milestone with the Hartmans._

_Natalie Lowell began summer classes at UCLA just after Memorial Day, and she has been here ever since. She never went home for a holiday or had family come to visit; she has just been here. And last year, when they caught that last man and I testified against him, Natalie could have disappeared, but it was too complicated to let her go. I couldn't start over as Mary Stuart for my one remaining year when everyone had known Natalie in her place for four._

_Finally free to be the one my parents named and joyfully took home from the hospital, I didn't know where to begin. It isn't as if anything in my life changed. I still had no family to go spend time with or who could come for a visit. I still didn't let myself date for fear of getting too close and having to move. My only friends were the few girls I lived with while getting my degree and a few colleagues from the firm where I interned for three years._

_Those traditional social groups we've learned about this semester – family, friends, work – none of them have had much bearing on my life. _

_Well, none but one. A box of letters was delivered to me after the trial and I was released from protective custody. Every month for thirteen years, Henry and Catherine had sent me letters about what was happening with their family – knowing it was likely I would never see them, much less be able to respond. And those letters have become a compass in guiding me to what I hope will be my last harbor.  
_

_Next month, at the close of my program here at UCLA, I am moving to Manhattan. Henry's company relocated there last year and they are expanding. Having corresponded with him and Catherine over the last year, he has decided to hire me as their new Chief Information Officer. It's gutsy for him to hire such a fledgling, but I'm grateful for the opportunity it presents. _

_I get to start over, to set down an anchor and disembark for the first time since I was six. Perhaps in one of the busiest, noisiest and most populous cities on this great planet, I will somehow manage to find answers to the questions that have evaded me for nearly the entirety of my existence:_

_Who is Mary Stuart and where does she fit?_

A few red marks denote missed punctuation and awkward sentences, but there are no comments scrawled in my professor's hand until I reach the bottom of the last page:

"I hope you find her."

I drop the paper back into my bag and decide to head to the sleeper compartment. Re-reading my personal history didn't help as much as I had hoped it might – it just raises more questions than answers. Perhaps I can sleep away most of the time between here and Chicago. And then maybe I'll tackle _Middlemarch_. I'm certainly not going to find Mary Stuart on a train in the middle of the West.

* * *

Street level at Penn Station might be one of the busiest places I've ever seen in the morning. Standing atop a bench to make up for my lack in height, I scan the crowd looking for a man who was nine the last time I saw him. I assume it will be a fruitless endeavor, but I do it anyway. Strangers float by and I look at most of them, knowing instinctively that they aren't him. My eyes flit toward the exit and I spot two blue orbs staring straight at me.

_Francis_.

After all these years, his eyes remain a beacon – calling me to harbor.

He strolls over, hands in his pockets. There's a bit of an edge to him, though he's dressed professionally for the day. Perhaps it's the rumpled golden curls on his head that contrast most with the collared shirt and jacket. He never could tame those curls, even as a child.

"Amanda?" he questions, helping me down from my lookout on the bench.

"Please," I implore, meeting his eyes. "Call me Mary."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I told myself never to write another multi-chapter fic, but here I am - and writing a modern AU at that. I plan to continue, but I'd like to know what you think! This was born out of our daily F/M thread challenge, which is intended to keep us busy for the remainder of the hiatus (and then some, for me, it seems). We get 24 hours after the prompt is released to write something. Today's prompt is "modern AU."

**Disclaimer**: I have no claim of ownership on "Reign" or its characters - that belongs to the CW, CBS and Laurie McCarthy. I just like the chance to play! The plot behind this modernized AU version of the show and any non-canon characters are mine, but I don't ever expect them to cross over with the show version.


	2. ONE: To hold or keep in the mind

Penn Station is not where I want to be first thing in the morning, but I'm here – and I'm here looking for a girl I haven't seen in thirteen years. Good thing my mother texted a photograph this morning, or I wouldn't know where to begin.

I see someone moving in my peripheral, a petite brunette climbing up on a bench to get a better look. Cute, from the look of her. My guess is she hopes to find someone or at the least to catch someone's attention. She certainly has caught mine. Her stance secure, she begins to glance around. As her face turns toward the exit, I realize it's her. To my surprise, my feet remain rooted to the floor.

How unlike me.

I can't help but stare. Something about the way she holds her head, scouting the crowded commuters, reminds me of how she used to watch for imaginary intruders from the platform of the treehouse. Alert. Poised. Determined. The perfect playmate.

She catches me in my stare. I don't know the last time I locked eyes with a woman for that long, but even surrounded by people at 9:37 in the morning, it's like there's no one else there. I finally convince my feet to move, trying my hardest to tame the playboy saunter everyone teases me for having. Shaking my head to clear the fog and reminding myself to drink less tonight than I did last night, I reach her and help her down from her perch.

"Amanda?" I ask, tentatively, not knowing what else to call her. My parents didn't share her real name – an oversight I'll take them to task for at dinner.

"Please, call me Mary," she responds. My heart lurches a bit at the sound of her voice. I remember that voice, and well, because it rings sweet and clear in my memories of her.

"Francis," I stammer out. An awkward pause follows because I feel foolish.

She knows _my_ name.

I reach for her suitcase, taking the handle, and my hand brushes against hers for the briefest of moments – but it's electric, that moment. Purely electric.

* * *

We stop by the house to drop off Mary's things. Until she's better established, my parents have decided she should stay at the house with me. School being out, they and my younger brothers will be away at the summer house for most of the next few months.

I swallow the lump in my throat and stop just to the side of the doorway to her bedroom, motioning her inside with a sweep of my hand.

"Thank you," she says, nodding and moving into the room. Most of the house has been redone since we relocated to New York. My mother loves a clean, traditional aesthetic best and this room proves no exception. I suppose that's the reason for the four-poster bed and the changing screen in the corner.

Mary takes it all in, though, with rapt attention. She walks toward an armchair and sets down her bag and jacket. The staff has already brought up her suitcase and it sits neatly in the closet. All of it so familiar to me, I'm captivated as I watch her regain her bearings with our family's money.

I'm startled from my interloping by the butler, Stephen, who clears his throat.

"The moving company has called to confirm Ms. Stuart's belongings will be arriving tomorrow, Mr. Valois."

"Of course, Stephen. Thank you for letting us know."

The man bows slightly and exits. Every day, I wonder why we have a staff and why my parents require them to treat us like royalty. It suddenly seems particularly absurd, with Mary gawking at a simple but expensively decorated bedroom, to think that others should _serve_ us.

But, at the same time, I have never known anything else.

I turn back toward Mary as she opens her suitcase and begins to rifle through it. She locates what appear to be work clothes and a pair of heels. She pivots enough to look at me over her shoulder, coloring ever-so-slightly at what I assume is her catching me in what I realize has become yet another stare.

"Um, Francis? If you'll close the door, I'll just be a minute and then we can go see the office."

I nod my head, acknowledging her need to change, and I enter the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me. Stephen brings me a cup of coffee while I wait. He likely saw me stumble in after being out with Bash last night, but I know he won't say anything – at least not to my face. To the other staff, possibly.

My head falls back, hitting the wall and narrowly avoiding the painting just to my right. I close my eyes, letting my thoughts run:

_This really can't be happening, can it? I have work to do. If I fail as the Chief Operating Officer of my father's company, the board will have me ousted in a moment and without hesitation. I can't be distracted by a young woman I once had a crush on as a boy! _

What were my parents thinking in having her work for the company, much less _live_ with us?

Maybe I'll ask tonight at dinner, if I can snatch a moment alone with either of them. Certainly, there must be a reason they chose her.

The door cracks open to my left and Mary pokes out her head, craning her neck to see around the corner where I'm trying and failing to not think about her. But she doesn't know that.

Instead, she straightens and joins me in the hallway. "Will this do for a casual walkthrough of the office?" she asks, shifting her weight back and forth on her feet and picking at a stray thread on her skirt.

Not many moments leave me speechless, but I must admit that this one does. Her travel clothes have been replaced by a simple blouse and a tailored skirt, and she doesn't seem to understand that her body is beautiful. She has even let down her hair, which falls the length of her back, her dark curls cascading and pooling around her shoulders. She gives off an easy old-world charm. I've never met someone so unassuming.

She glances up just then and, in her temerity, I find my voice. "You look lovely."

Her lips grace me with a slight smile and we move toward the door, where Stephen informs us a car waits outside to take us to the office.

"Thank you, Stephen," I address the man. "My parents will be in the city for dinner, so we will be back late." I lean in to tease him, "Keep the staff away from Mother's perfume, will you? Sarah reeked for days after your last free night."

"Will do, Mr. Valois," Stephen grins as we take our leave. "Will do."

* * *

Mary starts to relax a bit after we've left the office. The entire time I showed her around and introduced her to those who would be working with her, I could tell she was overwhelmed. I don't think anyone else picked up on it because it was subtle – but I remember the signs from when we were little. When you know the tells, she readily gives herself away.

Elisabeth provided a wonderful distraction when we met her for lunch at a small cafe nearby. She missed Mary almost as much as I did when she left, though certainly in very different ways. We filled the hour with talk of her engagement and upcoming wedding plans, and she kindly extended an offer to help Mary adjust to New York by shopping for her – not that Elisabeth needs an excuse to go shopping. Regardless, it seemed to help Mary settle a bit. Drop her guard just a little.

We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing my father's business model and the openings on her team we wanted to give her full discretion in filling herself – a personal assistant and a public relations director. She came to life when discussing her role with the company, though I could sense she still feels anxious about all of it. From what I've seen today and heard from my father, I must admit that I agree with him.

She will fit right in here.

And now, as we walk to the restaurant my parents chose for tonight, I can't help but turn my head slightly to catch a glimpse of her. She dodges an errant pedestrian and ducks closer to my side. I catch her scent and something in it lingers, something I can't quite put my finger on.

My phone vibrates and I look down to see a text from my secretary, Natalia. "Nothing's changed, right? Call me when you get done with your parents." Guilt washes over me, but I'm not exactly sure for what. I haven't led anyone on – or, at least, not yet. There's just something about the woman beside me that makes me want to be more than the COO who takes his secretary to bed and later has to fire her for it when it all becomes too awkward.

Deciding I need to respond quickly and without thinking too much about it, I send her a message to let her know it might be too late. "Meeting Bash and others at the pub," I write, trying to convince myself that I'm not avoiding her.

My parents greet us warmly when we arrive, each of them embracing Mary for much longer than comfortable or acceptable in a public setting, but she doesn't seem to mind. The subdued smile she has worn since our lunch with Elisabeth widens. Even after so many years away, she still fits well with our family. A pretty incredible thing to behold.

The _maître d_ seats us at our table, a bottle of my parents' favorite red waiting for us. I forget how often my parents come here, how often we've come here as a family. Good food, good wine. None of the pretense of the city. I'm grateful they decided to dine here tonight, unsure of how Mary would have reacted to a fancier choice.

"Francis seemed to find you all right at the station, my dear?" My mothers poses the question to Mary, but when Mary merely nods in affirmation, I grab the opening.

"That I did, Mother – though I would have made a less bungling impression if you had let me know her real name."

My mother breaks into laughter, even more so when she sees the confusion set in on my face.

"Francis, dear – did you not get my _other_ text message?" She emphasizes the "other," not passing up an opportunity to badger me about how I often ignore her texts. I reach for my phone, rapidly scrolling past the latest text from Natalia and finding the thread that holds messages from my mother. I pull my thumb down, allowing me to look for the one text I received, the one with the photograph.

"You only sent me the photograph, Mother. You never sent me … " My voice trails as I see the text which precedes the image: _Her name is Mary_.

They laugh heartily at my expense, Mary flushing over the confusion. "I don't mind, really." She leans closer and rests her hand on top of mine in a gesture of reassurance. Her voice whispers just under the sound of my parents' amusement. "Don't worry about it, Francis. I didn't really know who to expect when I got off the train, either."

The last words come across a bit tentative and I realize she's not just talking about me. What little I know of the last sixteen years of her life rises to the forefront of my mind – bowls me over, actually. She hasn't been Mary Stuart in sixteen years. I can't begin to fathom what that must be like.

* * *

We hurry toward the pub to meet Bash and a few others, including a friend of Mary's who lives in the city. The only thing I feel right now is shell-shock. My parents certainly have honed their mid-dinner ambushing skills.

Their concern for the board's faith in my competence is nothing new. They've bothered me for months, making sure I do everything in a transparent and excellent fashion so they can't question my father's decision to make me the head of operations. But this? This is overstepping.

_They honestly believe pretending to be engaged to Mary will increase my credibility with the board? _

I shake my head as we turn a corner, scoffing silently at my parents' audacity. I've been an ideal son, going to work for the family business instead of pursuing my own path – and, somehow, they think that means they reserve the right to dictate the rest of my life?

Every fiber in me wants to prove myself capable and to do so without this harebrained scheme. I realize it has the potential to work, but that's not the point. This is my job, my responsibility to succeed. Obviously, my father doesn't believe I can do so on my own.

My anger deflates slightly when I hold open the pub's door for Mary, realizing we haven't spoken for nine blocks as she rushes timidly past me and inside. I watch her locate a sign for the bathroom and figure I should probably wait for her to return before I try to find a seat.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn to see Bash, whose grin clues me in to the fact that he's already had at least two beers.

"Little brother!" he exclaims, taking stock of the unamused look on my face as I turn around. "You look per-, perturbed." Make that at least three beers, judging from the slur. "Problem at dinner with our father and Catherine?"

"Problem undersells it," I reply with a mutter. He still hears, though, in spite of the surrounding noise.

"So where's this girl, then?" he asks – a little too eagerly, if you ask me. "What does she look like?"

"Well, unless she decided to make a run for it, she should be back short-" I begin, feeling fingers rest lightly on my elbow from behind. If I can help it, I resolve not to let her touch me whenever possible. My skin already crawls from the contact. Too much of that and it won't matter what I want to prove to myself or to the company or even to my parents.

Too much of that and I'm sunk.

We make our way to a booth in the back corner, where we've told everyone to find us. Bash and I fill Mary in on the family history my parents left out of their monthly letters – the scandal that was his appearance when I was twelve. I undo a few buttons on my shirt, my duty to the day done.

She periodically scans the crowd looking for her friend from LA – an aspiring actress named Kenna, if I remember correctly. Lola and Aylee should be here shortly, and Leith, too, though he typically doesn't get off work until after midnight.

Mary checks her phone, laughs lightly at what looks like a text and puts it back in her bag as Lola and Aylee join us at the table. Bash, of course, flirts with both of them until he spies a girl unfamiliar to his charms walking toward us. Leggy. Light brown hair. Looks like a model. A bit bohemian. Just his type.

"Kenna!" Mary squeals, squirming her way out of her seat and throwing her arms around the girl. Introductions made, the waiter arrives and we order our drinks. The four girls chatter like they all know each other, even if their only common thread is Mary.

To accommodate Kenna, who has returned from her own trip to the ladies' room, Mary slides further in, her thigh grazing mine while she adjusts. Her scent again reaches my nostrils, her nearness reinforcing the need for the very resolution I made not even an hour ago.

My gin arrives and, feeling the rapid burn erupt in my throat as I down it, I say goodbye to my earlier determination to moderate tonight's consumption.

* * *

The street lights cast a soft glow as we walk the two blocks back to the house at just past midnight. I'd like to say I'm walking, but the real truth involves a bit of stumbling. While I didn't drink as much as I would have liked, that's probably a good thing. I step forward and lurch a little, but I don't seem to need to lean on anyone. There's only one person to lean on and if I've decided to be resolute about her not touching me, I've also realized the added foolishness were I to require her frame to hold me up.

"Francis, I've been wanting to talk to you – "

She pulls up just as we're about to ascend the stairs to the front door. I spy Stephen waiting for us through the window off to the side – for us to come close enough to open it up and usher us indoors.

"There's something I need to say to you," I respond, hoping I don't say something I shouldn't. "Maybe we should discuss this inside?"

I assume her response to be 'yes' because she moves toward the door as it cracks open.

"Good evening, Ms. Stuart, Mr. Valois." Stephen greets us as we enter and he locks the door behind us.

"Good evening, Stephen," replies Mary with a kind smile. "Could you possibly get Mr. Valois some water? He appears to have had a little too much to drink tonight."

"Of course, Ms. Stuart." The man heads toward the kitchen as we make our way into the study.

"You didn't have to say it like that," I mumble as I cast myself exhaustedly into an overstuffed chair. "I wasn't alone in my drinking tonight. You had several glasses of something."

"I had one glass of something, Francis. A vodka martini." She rolls her eyes, obviously impatient to get to the real conversation. "And then I had several glasses of water." Knowing what's on her mind, I decide to let her broach the subject because I sure as hell don't want to.

Stephen brings in a glass of water, setting it on the side table. He turns on his heel and leaves quickly, taking note of the scowl that has etched itself deeply into the lines of my face.

"Do you want to talk about what happened at dinner?"

Her tone disarms me – it's soft and unassuming, like everything about her – and words spill out from my mouth in a disorganized manner that I know I will likely regret in the morning.

"After dinner … when we were at the pub … I shouldn't have … There were other ways to handle this."

She takes a seat in the chair across from mine, taken aback by my statement.

"Handle what? Handle _me_?"

_Damn it_. Even inebriated, I detect the hurt in her voice.

"Don't you think we owe it to your parents to at least try? They've risked so much to give us this chance. How terrible must you find me?"

I groan, forcing myself to sit upright.

"It's not you," I say, certain something undesirable will slip out in the moments to come. "You're beautiful and clever and unpredictable," I blurt – realizing I should probably escape to my room before I mention anything else, but she doesn't seem willing to let me go just yet.

Her face brightens a bit, displacing her worried frown. I breathe as deeply as possible, attempting to craft my words so she knows my reservations have nothing to do with her.

"What matters is what's right for the company. We're not yet as soluble as you may think. I'm going to take over someday, responsible for our customers and accountable for every misstep – and I'd like to prove that I can handle this on my own. I think an engagement to you, based on a lie, will only result in the board still seeing me as incapable."

She leans back, looking like the wind has been knocked out of her. "You don't want to give this a shot. You don't want this at all – "

I cut her off before she can say more, giving voice to the one nagging question I've had since we left my parents because, somehow, she's been a picture of calm. "You do? You've spent your life lying to people. Why in the hell would you want to add one more to that list?"

The sting of what I've just said reflects back to me in her eyes, but she promptly recovers. Her eyes steel. Her posture hardens, suddenly defensive.

"What's one more lie? At least it's one that I can decide for myself. Besides, from the sound of it the decision isn't really yours – it's your father's."

Mary rises from her seat and heads toward the door. I know I should say something, anything really, to keep us from ending the night like this, and so I offer the only thought I feel might curb her frustration with me. "All I'm asking you to do is wait. See how things go – "

Spinning on her heel, she spits back, "See how things go for _you_. You're not the only one with a career to think of."

And, with that, she's gone.

* * *

**Author's Note**: And ... we're off! This has been really fun (and really challenging) to write because it's F/M, but it's not – and all at the same time. I'm hoping to post a new chapter maybe twice a week, since they're much longer chapters than I'm used to writing with a multi-chapter fic. Thanks to everyone who left a review! It's humbling to read your comments and hear your thoughts, particularly those of you skeptical of modern AU who are willing to go along with it_ just because it's me_. Hopefully, I'll be able to respond to you each individually in the next few days. :)

**Disclaimer**: A few strands of dialogue in this chapter are taken directly from the pilot. They are not mine, though many of them have been tweaked to fit the context.


	3. TWO: Any place of shelter

"Natalie?" I hear Grace's voice on the other end of my phone and the knot in my stomach begins to untangle for the first time today. "Isn't it, like, 1 a.m.?"

"Grace, we've been over this: It's 'Mary.' I have to do this. I have to move forward." The stress of my conversation with Francis can be heard in the strain of my voice. I have no doubt she'll pick up on it – she knows me well. "And, yes, it is."

"Well, then, _Mary_," she emphasizes. "You'll have to stop calling me by my family's pet name, then. It's 'Greer' - G-R-E – " I cut her off as she does her best impression of a spelling bee participant, knowing our conversation will degrade if I don't stop her.

"Okay, _Greer_. I'll try my best." I sigh audibly, remembering why I called. "Do you have some time to talk? I know it's earlier on the West Coast, but I don't want to assume – "

She cuts in before I can voice my insecurities, the sigh having reached her ears. "Of course I do. What's going on? Why do I get the feeling things aren't as you hoped they would be?"

Not surpringly, she picks up my frustration from what little we've exchanged so far, being one of the few people who knows me well enough to be able to do so. "They're not but, before I tell you what exactly is going on, I'd like you to promise me you'll consider something."

There's a slight pause, a quiet on the other end. I don't normally ask for things and she knows that. "Of course, Mary. I'll consider anything. What is it?"

"I'd like you to consider moving to New York and coming to work for me as our PR director."

I hear her gasp in surprise. I have no clue what she was expecting, but my guess is _that _was not it. To keep our conversation moving, I add, "We don't have to discuss the particulars tonight or even why I think you're talented and overly qualified for the job – but I want you to consider it."

"Okay," she breathes. "I'll consider it. Now tell me what has made you so upset."

In the hour that follows, I proceed to tell her of all that has happened since my arrival, concluding with the fake engagement ploy and my argument with Francis.

"That's insane, Mary. You can't possibly entertain the idea of pretending to be engaged simply to boost the board's faith in the two of you. If that were to get out, it would be a PR nightmare for me to sort through. Why would you even think – "

Greer's ranting has begun, but I catch something in her statement that gives me sufficient cause to interrupt. "What do you mean, for you to sort through? Does this mean you'll take the job?"

She laughs in her bedroom in Los Angeles and I know the exact face she's making as she shakes her head at me from afar. "Yes, it does. I know you haven't told me anything about it, but I'm bored; it's an unbelievable opportunity; and you seem like you could really use a friend." Taking a breath, Greer barrels forward. "I don't know where I'll live, mind you, but I'm in. We can discuss that more tomorrow when you call me on company time. For now, though, I want to know more about why you are considering this absurd idea of Henry's. What about it is so appealing?"

I sit on the question, not having thought about it from that angle. It just seemed easiest, to go along with what Henry requested of me. I hadn't stopped to question its bearing on my own life.

"Mary?" Greer asks, hesitantly, acknowledging that I haven't spoken a word in nearly a full minute. "Can I take a stab at it, since I know you pretty well?"

She takes my continued silence as her cue to say just what she feels needs to be said.

"I think you like that they told you who to be and that's a comfortable place for you. Because I'm guessing, in the 18 hours you've been in New York, you still haven't found Mary Stuart. Maybe pieces of her, sure, but you certainly haven't uncovered her fully. And that's hard. That's a really scary place to be, Mary. You've spent so long pretending to be so many other people because that's what you were told to do – it's easier for you to do than facing all that you don't know."

My hand reaches up to wipe away a few tears that leak freely from my eyes. She's right. She's always right, even if she sometimes has a brash way of putting things. Probably the result of her mother being a respected psychologist.

"I don't know, Greer … Maybe that is what it is. Or maybe it's just I had this grand expectation that Francis would still be my ally, my friend, my defender – and he so clearly doesn't want to be. He's the one person I could always count on, and now … Well, now I don't know. Maybe I thought the arrangement would force us to spend time together, so I might find out what he remembers about who I was when I first came to their family. But maybe it's all just wrong … "

"You haven't even been there a full day, Mary. Don't be so hard on yourself. You'll both adjust. I think you should try to get some sleep. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," I respond weakly. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, Gra-, _Greer_. And, hey – thanks for the text tonight, reminding me not to drink too much. I can't imagine what that conversation would have been like if I'd also been drunk."

* * *

The alarm on my phone sounds before I'm ready to rise. Whatever the thread count of the sheets on the bed, I will have no trouble getting used to them. Perhaps it's merely the fatigue of the last several days and the fact I slept on a train for most of the nights in between but, in spite of last night's emotion, I slept comfortably and without waking.

Reluctant to leave but knowing I'm expected sooner rather than later, I push back the bedcovers and pad over to the closet, where my few items have been unpacked. I try to convince myself that I'll feel more at home, more settled, once the rest of my things arrive later today. After last night's foot-powered tour from office to restaurant to pub, I realize I'm going to need better shoes. Maybe Elisabeth can help me with that – or Greer, when she arrives.

I shower, encouraging myself to become alert and trying to wrap my head around the day. My daily routine doesn't take long, but I find myself lingering under the falling water and its warmth. When it starts to turn cold, I sheepishly turn it off and reach for the closest towel, wrapping it around my body, and snatch another to rub through my hair. I decide to let it dry fully on my way in to the office. It is summertime, after all.

Venturing out into the hallway, I'm met by Sarah – dusting paintings and waiting for me to leave for the day so she can clean my room.

"Good morning, Ms. Stuart." She curtsies and I don't quite know what to do with that.

"Good morning, Sarah," I reply, taking in what little I can see of the rest of the house from my vantage point. "Have you seen Mr. Valois this morning?"

Her dusting stops for a moment as she turns to look at me, a bit wide-eyed at my question. I wonder for the first time how many ears heard our argument last night.

"He left a while ago, Ms. Stuart. Said he needed to go in early."

_Or he just wanted to avoid me_, I think before I can stop myself.

"Would you like me to get you some breakfast or have Stephen call for a car?"

"No, thank you," I reply – part of my conversation with Greer from last night returning to me. "I think I'll walk and get something to eat on the way. I have to get my bearings sometime. It would be helpful, though, if you could tell me which way to walk when I leave the house."

"Of course, Ms. Stuart." She smiles kindly. "You'll want to turn right."

* * *

On my way to work, I find myself lost in my thoughts as I converge with the masses, but I try to keep it focused on the workplace I'm about to walk into for the second time. A cyclist darts in front of me and I step back to avoid colliding with him.

_Grateful_. That's the one word I can think of to describe my feelings toward the team I'll be working with. I remember Lola and Aylee from when I was younger, their families being close friends with the Valois family. We weren't especially good friends – playing only rarely when Francis had something else, gathering only for special events and birthdays – but, still, they're familiar faces and they also have a good chance of having met the real Mary Stuart at some point, so I'm grateful to have them on-board.

From the look of her and what I gathered from being out with her last night, Lola lives up to her reputation. Meticulous. Always a critic. A perfect creative director after her standout years at the Rhode Island School of Design. Aylee couldn't be more different, however. My memories recall her loyalty, her meek nature hiding the fact that her lineage includes some of the oldest – and wealthiest – families on the East Coast. MIT accepted her at sixteen and it's no wonder Henry wanted her as his director of information technologies. With the addition of Greer and Kenna, who I hope to bring on as my personal assistant, I think we'll have a highly skilled team of personnel to support the company.

I turn north, remembering the directions Sarah gave me before I left, and I spot the cafe we ate lunch at yesterday. Popping in, I order a black tea latte and some yogurt and decide to take them to go.

The remaining three blocks, my brain starts connecting all I know of Valois Security and I come to one overarching conclusion: Henry's company structure is brilliant. He knows the importance of maintaining a traditional business model in a non-traditional world. In an attempt to convey that he and his employees can be trusted with the loved ones and assets of the company's customers – the company motto being "Known and Trusted," after all – he has only hired those he knows and trusts himself. An ingenious way to keep nepotism alive in the modern world, to be sure, and his youthful workforce allows him a prime opportunity to also attract new, younger clientele.

But that still leaves one question: _Why me_?

I realize I don't really fit the "known and trusted" criteria. Perhaps once upon a time, in the nightmarish fairytale that was my life when I lived with them as a child – perhaps he knew and trusted me then. But why now?

_And why does he want me, of all people, to pretend to be engaged to his son?_

I shove my last question aside as I grapple with the first. I suppose I am good at what I do, when I really think about it. My bosses at the LA firm I interned with for three years squeezed as much free labor as they could from my time for a reason. I've spent my life crafting and selling identity, haven't I? While most new graduates have maybe three years of experience, I have sixteen. I'm just selling a different product now.

My feet carry me into the tall glass-faced building that houses our corporate offices. Bash waves from the security desk, his feet kicked up before him while he watches the morning news on one of the lobby television sets.

"Good morning, Mary," he greets me cheerfully – far too much so for how much he drank last night. The thought occurs to me that maybe he didn't ever _stop_ drinking, but I let it go.

"Good morning, Bash," I return, eager to get on the elevator and ride up to the ninth floor. "Has Francis already come in this morning?"

He shifts his feet to the ground and kicks his chair back. "Yes," he states. "He came in about an hour ago. Say, Mary ... " he starts. "You wouldn't mind giving me your friend's phone number, would you?"

I laugh, my nervousness for the day slightly dissipating. He just looks so hopeful sitting there, I can't help myself. "Who, Kenna?" I confirm, to which he nods eagerly. "Sorry, Bash – if she didn't give it to you herself, I'm certainly not going to risk her wrath by doing so."

His face falls, but he brightens up when he hears the newscasters begin to talk about something at Coney Island. I take the chance to slip away and into the elevator as I hear him call out behind me, "Thanks anyway!"

Everyone greets me as I step through the doors and make my way back toward my suite, my path taking me past the windows to Francis' office. He's talking on the phone and visibly upset. The door ajar, I can still only decipher the occasional word.

"Could you tell Mr. Valois to stop by my office when he gets a chance?" I ask his secretary, having already forgotten her name."I need to talk to him about my new hires."

"Sure thing, Ms. Stuart," the girl replies, keeping one eye on him with a slightly enamoured look on her face. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

"No, that will be all," I reply, remembering her name from its appearance on the screen of Francis' phone the night before while we were at the pub. "Thank you, Natalia."

She starts to respond with some socially accepted nicety, but Francis' voice grows louder and she doesn't. Neither of us can help our eavesdropping.

"You can't … Father! You cannot make her do this – She's spent her whole life … She's not just a business acquisition! She's a girl you once considered a daughter, under your care. You can't … "

Hearing him start over, I slip away from Natalia's desk and into the safety of my own four walls, setting my forgotten breakfast on my desk and closing the blinds on the windows so no one will see me collapse into my chair and process any of what I've just overheard.

At least it's Friday.

* * *

The next morning, I find Francis in the breakfast nook with the Times spread before him. He gestures to the seat next to him and I take it, also taking a moment to look at him. No talk of the day or the weather passes between us – we haven't discussed more than my new hires since our argument.

Stephen quietly appears to see what I would like to eat. I suspect that, soon enough, when he realizes I have the same thing every day, he'll anticipate my morning routine: Black tea with milk and a teaspoon of sugar; yogurt with fresh fruit and granola, if it's on hand. All things I fell in love with while in college.

He places the food in front of me as Francis' phone rings, vibrating against the table. I thank Stephen and take a sip of my tea to test its temperature. It's perfect, so I swallow a little more, enjoying the way the warmth slips down my throat. My euphoria at discovering the kitchen staff's ability to make a perfect cup of tea does not keep me from listening to Francis' end of the conversation he is having with his mother. I'm becoming quite the eavesdropper, it seems.

"Of course he does … Is Henry going to be all right? No, I don't have any plans tonight. Of course I can take him. When will he be … And at the school, you said? And at – All right, Mother. I'll let you know when he has arrived. Okay. … Okay. I'll talk to you soon. Bye."

He hangs up the phone and sets it back on the table, glancing up at me. After all the staring I caught him in on Thursday, it seems it's his turn to catch me. I didn't realize I had been watching him so intently while he talked with Catherine. I clear my throat, diverting my gaze.

"So, what was that about?" I snag a discarded section of the Times and pretend to be interested. Most days I would be, but today my mind is foggy – and I'm beginning to suspect that the reason for that fog sits next to me.

He shuffles the pages in his hands a bit, resuming his own reading – or at least he appears to resume his reading – as he speaks. "That was my mother. Charles has a cotillion class this evening with his school. She was supposed to take him and chaperone, but Henry has come down with some sort of illness and she wants to stay with him."

"And your father – why can't he take Henry?" I question, impressed by how calmly Francis takes on responsibility for his brother.

"He has that safe demonstration with the company Philip recommended. Mother figured I might be able to take Charles and since I don't have plans for the evening, I don't mind."

His eyes haven't really moved, leading me to believe he has been trying to read the same sentence over and over since he got off the phone. A bit of my mental fog clears, giving me an idea.

"Maybe I could go, too. I'm new to the city, but I remember our cotillion classes from when we were younger. I could keep you company and I'd love to spend some time with Charles." I look up from the article I'm currently not reading, hopeful, and he finally meets my eyes with his own.

"All right," he agrees nonchalantly before looking down at the paper again. "But you might want to call Elisabeth. You'll need a dress. Since your things didn't arrive yesterday, maybe she can lend you something."

I finish the last of my tea, set aside the paper and push back the chair. "Thanks," I say softly before turning toward my room so I can call Elisabeth.

* * *

I step out of the salon where Elisabeth took me after our afternoon of dress shopping and I find a car waiting. The driver opens the door for me and I slip inside to encounter what appears to be a slightly stunned Francis and a seven-year-old I assume to be Charles seated across from him.

"Good evening, Mary," Francis says – rather too formally for my liking. "This is Charles." Looking to Charles, he speaks in kind. "Charles, this is Mary. She lived with Elisabeth and me before you were born. Mary," he turns back to me, his blue eyes piercing. "You look beautiful."

My cheeks flush and I'm grateful for the dim light in the car. I hear Charles whisper to his older brother that I smell nice and I smile as I smooth the skirt on the modest navy dress Elisabeth talked me into buying. We arrive at the school only a few minutes later and the driver assists me in reaching the curb, where Francis and Charles immediately join me.

Inside the school, young children are everywhere. In particular, the boys line one wall and the girls another – in spite of the efforts of several parents and the cotillion coordinators. I balk a bit, realizing the room has been set for dancing. Thankfully, Elisabeth also found me some comfortable shoes. I just hope they won't give me first-use blisters before the night is over.

The coordinator pairs Charles with a little girl named Madeleine, but he refuses to go near her. Cooties being what they have always been, I understand completely and attempt to convince Madeleine that it's all right to dance with boys because I danced with boys at her age. Apparently, that's enough logic for her and she approaches Charles, whom Francis nudges forward. They mimic the stance modeled by the dance instructor and her husband. As I walk to the side, I'm approached by a man. Attractive. Likely 30. Possibly a teacher.

"I'm Simon Westbrook," he introduces himself. "I teach English here at the academy. I don't think I've seen you here before. Which student are you with?"

Definitely a teacher, then. Something about him makes me nervous but no obvious reason for my anxiety exists. I point to Charles, stating my name and mentioning that I am a friend of the Valois family.

"We love Charles. Such a great kid. Are you from New York?"

"No," I reply. It dawns on me that I really don't know where to say I'm from – Sacramento? Connecticut? Denver? Kansas City? LA? I decide I should just tell people 'New York' from now on.

My lack of response seems to throw him, especially as my eyes have begun to dart about the room.

"And what do you do, Ms. Stuart?" He asks, this question necessitating more than a 'yes' or 'no' this time.

"I'm the Chief Information Officer at Valois Security," I relay. _There – that wasn't so hard, was it?_

"How did you get into that line of work?" he continues, moving a bit closer to me in the process. I think of my father and my determination to be like him. I recall the thought I had on my way to work yesterday about how I'm good at my job because I've created my own identity all these years. My hands begin to tremble, just a little. My heart rate rises.

"I just discovered at some point that I was good at it." The words that come from my mouth are a bit wobbly, but I manage a smile. I don't want to be rude, but I also don't want to be standing here talking to a complete stranger about how I came to be in Manhattan. There's also the fact that I haven't thought of a single question to ask _him_. My lungs threaten to seize, reminding me to breathe.

"Perhaps I've heard of your family – " Something snaps inside as he begins to ask this last question and I don't hear the rest. I just feel a hand settle on my elbow as tears pool in my eyes.

"Darling! You're missing the game!" _Francis_. His voice brings me back, even if just a little bit. I see he has plastered a goofy semi-inebriated smile onto his face. _If only Mr. Westbrook knew that wasn't what he looks like when he's drunk. _

"I've already had two glasses of wine! Every time a kid steps on another kid's feet, we must take a drink." I feel composed enough that I look up at him, sensing his concerned eyes tracking my every movement. "Simon!" he turns, extending one of the two wine glasses he carries. "Still teaching, are we? Here, have a glass."

Francis leans in toward me, brushing a finger of his free hand lightly against my nose and leering cheekily, "I have another game in mind for you."

Before I'm aware of exactly what is happening, Francis has taken me into the hallway and pushed me up against the wall. His hands move constantly as I try to keep them from landing just below my ribcage – and everywhere they do land, it is as though a spot fire erupts at their touch.

"What are you doing?" I ask uneasily. For the first time, I'm close enough to detect his cologne, which only makes me more eager to be out of his grasp.

"Don't move," he replies calmly, firmly. "Don't push me away. You're shaking."

And he's right, I am shaking.

"What happened, Mary?"

I shake my head, hopefully conveying that this isn't Mr. Westbrook's fault. Words slowly choke their way out of my throat, "He just asked me about myself. Why I do what I do. My family."

"Ah," he affirms. The quiet cool of the hallway leads my body to relax, the shaking subsiding a little as I grapple to regain full composure. His hands lift from my body and he settles in next to me. Air rushes into my lungs as I force myself to breathe.

He breaks the silence after a few minutes, speaking low so that we aren't overheard by the few others in the hallway. "My father won't relent. I have no idea why he's so insistent, but he still wants us to go along with this engagement ruse." A sigh escapes him and I see him run his fingers through his hair – a sign of frustration I've come to know well since my arrival.

"It would be easier for me," I find my voice. "I mean, it's easier for me to pretend to be engaged to you than to try and figure out who I am."

"But isn't that a good reason _not_ to go along with this? You need that chance." His words tip me off that he suspects I've come to New York to find myself. The only emotion I can ever seem to read clearly from him is concern and his eyes are filled with it.

_In and out_, I remind myself to breathe again. My heart rate begins to slow.

"I do but, as you saw just now, I'm not really ready to take that chance in public." I realize he has leaned into me a little in order to hear my soft answer.

"Well, then." He straightens, setting his jaw determinedly. "Can you do this?"

My face surely reflects my confusion until I register the meaning behind his words. He's offering shelter, even if just from the passing storm.

"Absolutely," I resolve as I stand upright. "Can you?"

_That's really the question, isn't it?_ Because he has made it pretty clear that he doesn't want this at all.

He answers by taking my hand and pulling it gently through the crook of his arm, moving us back toward the room where the children continue to learn their dances.

* * *

'Intoxicated' might be the only appropriate word to describe how I feel as Francis and I dance amongst the children. As if I've consumed a steady stream of alcohol for hours. Every inch of my skin flames with something I haven't felt before – that I've never let myself feel before. I find myself thankful that his arms hold me up because, at this point, I'm not sure that my own legs are able to do so. His legs were always longer than mine, but when did he get so tall? And _lean_?

"You've gotten better," he whispers into my ear and I feel something unnameable spread through my body. The feel of his breath against my neck distracts me enough that I step lightly on his toes. A chuckle rumbles from his lips. He briefly leans his temple against mine and I can feel the laugh lines in his forehead. "Then again … "

"My roommate in college danced," I manage to squeak. "She gave me some pointers. Grac- I mean, _Greer_. You'll meet her Monday."

"The new PR director? You referred to her as 'Grace' the other night at the pub, didn't you?" My head bobs in affirmation, a little surprised that he actually remembers anything that was said at the pub with how much gin he imbibed.

"Yes, Greer. Her family calls her 'Grace' because that was what her dance teacher called out to her repeatedly as a child – 'Grace, Greer. _Grace_.' It stuck. She's trying to get away from it, going by her given name to earn the respect of her peers. Respect is the greatest achievement in the Kinross household."

Even the increasingly less-present space between us has become comfortable as our feet find the steps to the waltz the dance instructor has just announced. I catch myself engrossed in the idea that maybe we can actually pull off this fake engagement. But maybe that's still just my desire to be near him because he knew me long ago, as I told Greer. Maybe it's just because he came to my rescue, as he did when we were young.

"Well, what do you think, Ms. Stuart?" his voice drawls in my ear, his face close enough that his light beard leaves a tickle on my skin. "Will you marry me?"

* * *

We tuck a sleepy Charles into his bed shortly after we arrive back at home and tiptoe backward out of his room. It's still early, the cotillion ending just as most of the city's inhabitants make their way out their front doors for dinner. I stop by my room to kick off my heels and am in the middle of a debate over whether to change into something more comfortable when I hear footfalls stop in my doorway. I look up to see Francis leaning against the frame and I can't describe the way I feel when I see him except that I like what I see.

He holds up a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Would you like a drink?"

I follow him into the living room, where I sink into the deep couch and instinctively curl my feet up under me – a luxury, I note, because of the tea-length of my dress.

A glass filled with the red liquid soon finds its way into my hand.

I still haven't wrapped my head around the idea that this could be more than just a living arrangement – that I could put down roots, that I can be part of this family again.

"If we're going to make this work," his voice stirs me from my contemplation. "We should probably get to know one another better." He adds, "You know – as adults."

I sip the wine. It's good. Flavorful. A little fruitier than what we had the other night with dinner.

"What do you want to know?" I offer, inhaling deeply. The teacher at the school tonight had given me a panic attack when he asked questions – but I get the feeling it won't be like that with Francis. And I agree with him. If we're going to pull this off, we will need to be more familiar with each other.

"Well, for starters," he grins. "Did you ever figure out how to sit through a story?"

I roll my eyes, knowing he references my terrible impatience as a child. Games, too, were often left unfinished.

"Okay, okay," he laughs easily. "Why did you only have one drink the other night?"

He still has given me an easy question, one that shows he has been paying attention.

"You remember Greer, right? I mentioned her earlier – " I begin, only to be interrupted.

"I'm sorry to intrude, Mr. Valois." Stephen stands by patiently. "There is someone here to see Ms. Stuart. Ms. Stuart, might I show him in?"

I agree and move to reposition my body and cross my legs. Francis tenses protectively to my right as Stephen shows in a middle-aged man wearing a full suit and carrying a briefcase.

"Good evening, Ms. Stuart, Mr. Valois," he says evenly.

We stand and he greets each of us with a firm handshake before we return to our seats.

"Good evening," I respond cautiously, perplexed by the stranger's appearance at this hour on a Saturday night. "What can we do for you, Mr. … ?"

"DeGuise, Ms. Stuart. Claude DeGuise."

"Well, then, Mr. DeGuise. Would you like to sit?"

"No, thank you," the man declines. "This won't take long. I just need to drop off some papers." He retrieves a legal folio from from the case and sets it in my waiting hands. "Your case manager told us to wait a year after you were released from the program to contact you, so you might regain some sense of normalcy after all you have been through. These papers merely inform you as to your father's desires concerning his estate. They are long overdue. I am so sorry for your loss, Ms. Stuart."

I feel my eyes brimming as I sit there in a state of shock, the weight of my father's life resting in my lap. Francis rises again to thank the man and Stephen escorts him back to the door.

A hand comes to rest on my arm as Francis kneels down to be at my level. "Are you going to be all right?" he asks. I nod.

"Would you like to know what the papers say?" he follows.

"Yes," I croak.

"I'll leave you alone, then." He returns to an upright stance.

"Francis – wait," I call out after him as he turns to leave. I'm on the verge of breaking down entirely but my desire to know looms more strongly. "Could you tell me what the papers say? I've never been good with legalese."

He returns to my side and takes the folio from my hands, opening it and removing the contents. After a few minutes of studying the pages while I watch him, he exclaims in surprise.

"Mary," he starts, looking up for consent to continue – making sure I still want to know. "You're set to inherit your father's company when you turn 25."

I don't remember much of what happens after he relays this piece of information, or the several other smaller ones that follow for that matter.

All I know is that I now know the why and my blood runs cold as I acknowledge it.

_This is why Henry chose me_.

* * *

**Author's Note**: A lot of you are asking how closely I'm going to keep to the story. I will admit, that as much as I'd like to mirror the exact story, I have to be faithful and creative in adapting it to fit both the Frary narrative I love and some of the other themes I'm choosing to focus on. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! The next chapter will probably be out next Monday, as I am finding very little time to write while I'm on a brief trip. Thanks for all of your reviews so far! Let me know what you think of this beast ... I didn't intend for it to be so lengthy, I promise – it just happened! :)

**Disclaimer**: As with the previous chapter, this one also borrows scenes and dialogue from the show itself - primarily 102. Only the adaptation is mine.


	4. THREE: Any place of refuge

At some point in the night, it dawns on me that I must be missing _something_.

For hours, I have gone around and over every conversation I have had with my father since the moment Mary re-established contact with my parents last year. I know he wants to put forth a united family front when he announces his plan to take Valois Security public in the coming months. I know that, somehow, Mary being a part of our family and holding the keys to Stuart Tech are not unrelated in my father's mind. In the years I have lived under his roof and worked in his shadow, I have learned well how he thinks.

And what he thinks is that Mary's inheritance will bolster the faith of future stockholders.

I glance up, taking notice for the first time that the hour has slipped well past midnight. Mary, it appears, has already fallen asleep on the couch. After we finished our question-and-answer session and its accompanying bottle of wine, she set out to research her father's company. It would be unmerciful to wake her – for the first time since Mr. DeGuise's arrival, she actually looks peaceful.

Surely, I could call for assistance from Stephen or tap her shoulder until she wakes, but I find myself pursuing a third, more dangerous option. Standing, I stretch my legs before walking over to her. Her laptop and legal pad rest on the floor beside her, but I move them to a side table to make sure I don't step on them when I do what I intend to do next.

She doesn't wake when I stoop down to slip my arms under her legs and middle back. Actually, it almost seems as if she sleeps more deeply – burrowing into me as I lift her small frame. She weighs little, but I'm still grateful she lives just down the hall and not upstairs. The feel of her against me after the evening we shared stirs something inside that I haven't let myself entertain for years. _Not since … _but I refuse to entertain that thought.

Sarah must have left the door to Mary's room open, the lights dim inside. It looks as if she turned down the bed, something I realize doesn't even happen in my own room. I slide Mary onto the bed, straightening her legs and making sure she'll sleep in a position that won't cause discomfort. If I were more brazen, like Bash, I might help her out of her dress in the name of not wrinkling it – but I'm not and I won't.

Regardless, I don't think I could actually handle seeing any more of her than I already have. As it is, I'm already fighting the urge to crawl in next to her and sleep here instead of in my own bed.

I turn the lights out completely as I leave the room and ascend the staircase steps to the second floor. Deciding I ought to try to sleep, if just for a few hours, I enter my own room. I pull off my shirt because it smells like her. _Orchid_, I've decided. That's what I could never quite pinpoint, seemingly too exotic for such an unassuming young woman.

Three days and I already know the signs. Just as when we were children, Mary has drawn me in and refuses to let go. I might be offering her refuge while she figures out a few things, but the reality remains that I am wholly captivated by every piece of her.

The way she laid against me only moments ago, her breath releasing against my shoulder and her arm draped behind my neck – I realize I abandoned any resolve I had toward staying away from her the moment I saw the car door open tonight. She stepped in, hair swept up and attired so simply and stunningly, and I felt something skip in my chest. Even though her dress covered absolutely everything but a short stretch of skin between her knee and ankle, I still uncharacteristically struggled to find words. Luckily, Charles is not yet old enough to understand his older brother's predicament – and, therefore, not yet old enough to tease me for my falling back on formality.

I sink further into the bed I didn't realize I had crawled into, so consuming have been my thoughts of her.

If something is indeed missing, as I suspect, from my estimation of my father's plans, tonight will likely not be the last time Mary nears a public meltdown. The image of her face, panicked and distraught, appears as I close my eyes. All I wanted to do in that moment was protect her, when her hands started to shake and her eyes filled with tears. And as a result, I exhibited a measure of protectiveness I didn't know I possessed.

Thankfully, it worked. Next time, however, I might not be so lucky. I might not even be _there_. I recognize that only if we keep up this ruse – and possibly only then – can I stay close enough to offer her any sort of safety.

* * *

"I'm sorry – " I look up from my drafting board and see Mary in my office's entrance. "I didn't realize ... " She pauses, debating whether to come further into the room or retreat back downstairs. "Stephen told me I might find you here. Am I interrupting?"

I shake my head to indicate that, 'no,' she isn't interrupting and put down my pencil, sweeping away a few stray eraser remnants. I've apparently lost track of the time this morning as I've attempted to divert my desire to discern the full extent of my father's intentions for Mary. My eyes flit down to what I've been drawing in my sketchbook and I hastily close its cover. In doing something so far removed from my regular duties, I often free up my mind to process in different ways.

And, apparently, this morning's processing involved scratching Mary's profile onto paper.

She makes her way into the room, distracting herself with the paintings and schematics on the walls. A pause at one drawing in particular includes her finger hovering lazily just above the glass to find the artist's signature. She startles and I smile because she has discovered one of the few secrets I have managed to keep from public knowledge.

"You did this?" A hint of awe can be detected in her voice and she wanders further down the wall, finding my diploma. "I thought you studied business."

It is not difficult to detect the question she actually asks in her statement. I get up from my seat and walk over to stand next to her. My body leans into hers. It seems it can't help itself.

"I did," I assent. Her face reflects the confusion I sensed in her words. "I just _also_ studied civil engineering."

"Of course you did," she states softly.

This catches my attention. "Why do you say that?" I ask.

"We came to the city when we were younger. I remember the press of people, the constant noise, and the park where your mother took us." Without hesitation, I know exactly the day of which she speaks. "You would have stood by that bridge the entire day if she would have let you. Every stone fascinated you. You wanted to know how it all fit together – each and every piece – so that it would be strong enough for people to walk on it and not collapse."

'Blown away' barely captures what I feel in this moment, to listen to her describe the afternoon I fell in love with this city and with discovering how things were built. I laugh nervously, not wanting to give away how she affects me.

"You remember that, do you? I guess I can't help thinking that I should have some skill of my own – a _real_ skill, one that I didn't inherit through my father's business endeavors, that wasn't given to me and can't be taken away should the stock market fail. In high school, I fell in love with physics and math, and you apparently remember my longstanding affinity for bridges ... Civil engineering was a natural fit."

Part of me holds my breath, waiting for her response. There is a good chance she considers me a fool for what I've just shared. When she doesn't respond, I begin to ramble, "I mean, I suppose if there were ever something that caused the company to lose faith in me, I could always get by on my own doing something like this." I point to the framed blueprint of my senior thesis project. "Not that I want the company to fail, mind you – "

She cuts me off, an earnest expression on her face. "But I'd save you." Flushing a bit at her sudden outburst, she hurries to explain. "I mean, before it got to that point – that's what my team and I are here for, isn't it? And if that still went badly, I'd hire you at Stuart."

Again, I'm recognizing that this girl's kindness knows no bounds and it renders me silent. Her gaze locks onto mine. After a few moments, I find my voice. "That is a very kind offer. I hope I never have to take you up on it."

* * *

Most Saturdays involve some sort of work, as has this one. My father chose to spend a few days in town and I've reaped the benefit of poring over our lawyers' thoughts on what going public will look like for Valois. In the past, I wouldn't have minded so much, but today I truly wished to be anywhere else – especially if it meant I could be at home with Mary.

We have settled into an easy routine. A night or two each week, we venture out with the gang. Those nights involve drinks and dancing, pub noise and a brisk walk home afterward. All part of the greater plan for our burgeoning 'relationship' to be public. After Mary learned of her inheritance, we chose not to inform my father that we distrusted his motives in keeping her close to the family – and, consequently, we chose to continue our fake relationship so he wouldn't suspect what we already knew. In time, we hope he'll reveal his hand more fully.

Every other night we stay in, open a bottle of wine, and I watch Mary curl into the couch next to me while we watch an episode of _Gilmore Girls_. Mostly, I've discovered the joy of watching her watch the show. We've tried other things – science fiction, procedural dramas, sports – but the intensity of most programming has a tendency to leave her jumpy at the end of a night, and so we keep our choices light. Filled with banter and reconciliation. It has developed quickly into a carefree pattern. We figure the more comfortable we are with one another at home, the more convincing we will be in front of others.

And, so far, it seems to be working. I almost fool myself sometimes.

Stephen opens the door for me and ushers me in out of the heat of the day. At the height of summer, today has been extraordinarily warm.

"Would you like something to drink, Mr. Valois?" he inquires.

"Some water would be wonderful. Thank you, Stephen." He half-bows in his exit and my feet wander down the hallway toward Mary's room to see if she might be up for an evening in – but I don't travel far before I hear a chorus of laughter erupt through her open door. Several voices, from the chatter – quite possibly six, if my hunch is correct. Likely Mary, her four female coworkers and my sister all occupy the room.

_Did I miss something? Did she tell me they were all coming over?_

I shake my head, catching snippets about clothing and how wonderful Greer's return to blonde has been. While I would masochistically love to linger outside and listen, I decide it will be safer to vacate to another corner of the house. Perhaps I can go draw something – if only to distract myself from how the girls will receive Mary's time and attention tonight.

_The girls_, I reflect as I shuffle quietly back toward the entryway. _Not me_.

* * *

"I need your help."

She sits demurely next to me in my father's office, directly across from him. His face holds no surprise, as if he has long expected her to call for this meeting. As if he doesn't care for her enough to have called for it himself in a show of support.

Part of me hates to acknowledge it, but I instinctively know – the moment I see that stupid amused smile tug at his lips – that this will be a dead end of a meeting for Mary.

My father taps the tips of his fingers together and leans back in his chair. His summer schedule away from the office has left him relaxed, I observe. Relaxed and more shrewd, if that is at all possible.

"And what is it that you need help with, Mary?"

Of course he asks this question rather than the one a normal father would ask, that being, 'How can I help you?' I fight the scoff that wants to make its way past my lips. Even the one recurring father figure Mary has had since her own father died doesn't have her best interests in mind.

"Stuart Tech currently finds itself embattled in a major labor dispute. I'm sure you've read about it in the papers."

I can see her, breathing evenly to keep herself calm – attempting to gauge my father's interest level in spite of his lack in emotion. There should be no doubt whatsoever that he has already heard of the labor dispute. After all, he wants the company under the Valois banner, doesn't he? Surely, he's well aware.

Frustration twitches just below Mary's ear at her jawline. Normally, I wouldn't be able to see it, but her hair has been pulled to the side in some sort of knot. A new hairstyle to thank Greer for, I presume. Mary has gradually begun to look more and more like she belongs here in the city.

Rightly interpreting my father's silence as an indication to continue rather than to expect a response, she does.

"Their lawyers are young and inexperienced in this type of altercation. I would like to request the use of one of our lawyers and some of the information department's time to be dedicated to assist in resolving this issue expediently. I may not hold ownership of the company just yet, but they have given me a spot on the board. Especially with your interest in the company eventually finding a home under Valois, … "

"That will not happen, Mary." My father interrupts, finally speaking, his tone cold and condescending – as it was when I told him years ago that I did not desire to take up the family business. Unfortunately, I can't tell her in this moment that his tone will only mean more frustration than success.

"But you have so many more resources that we do. Surely you can spare a few … "

She doesn't even try to hide her bewilderment. It marks every line of her face. I fight the urge to reach over and rest my hand on her arm to reassure her. It would surely raise my father's suspicion if I did so. He remains one of the few people around whom we don't have to pretend to be romantically involved.

"Mary?" Kenna pokes her head in through the doorway and I find myself wondering how she feels so free to do such a thing. Certainly Joy, my father's assistant, knows better than to let another employee's assistant interrupt an important meeting. Oddly, my father doesn't say anything either.

"Yes, Kenna?" Mary regains a bit of her composure, shifting from the uncomfortable conversation at hand. "What is it?"

"Mr. Trent, the board president for Stuart, is on the phone. He would like to speak with you immediately, if possible. You told me to interrupt if – "

"Thank you for letting me know, Kenna." Mary waves her out the door, but Kenna lingers a bit. Out of the corner of my eye, I'm shocked to find my father's eyes light as he looks at the girl.

Only one word springs to mind: _Gross_.

That, and the hope that my mother has no idea of his dalliances at the office.

I put the thought as far from my mind as possible and am grateful when Kenna finally decides it's time to leave the room. Mary stands and holds out a hand to my father as a gesture of goodwill.

"Thank you for your time, Henry."

I can tell she is furious. Her impatience hasn't faded since we were children – she has merely learned to mask it with an impressive professionalism.

After she leaves, I turn back toward my father. "You couldn't even allow her a few hours with a lawyer to discuss what's happening? Ours have considerable experience with this sort of thing. And half our staff sits idle right now while we wait to see if our IPO filing clears. We honestly can't provide her with any resources whatsoever?"

The frustration which has stewed under my skin while listening to the earlier non-discussion now threatens to boil over. This is not the first time my father and I have come to verbal blows over Mary. Our phone conversation from the day after her arrival – the day after he and my mother unveiled their plan – comes to mind.

My father's gaze shifts, his eyes taking on a look I know all too well. With my latest outburst, he has me just where he wants. I brace myself, waiting for him to tell me what I've walked into this time.

"Well, Francis," he says, his eyes twinkling like those of a madman. _Perhaps he is a madman_. "If you and Mary are willing to stop dragging your feet and announce your engagement formally, I'll speak with the board."

His words slam into me. If I weren't still seated, there's a good chance I'd need to be.

"That's it? Why would that, of all things, make a difference?" I manage to get out, unsure of what to say to his repeated proposition.

"Well, I'm glad you asked, son." I wait for him to continue, eager to escape and roll my eyes in the privacy of my own office. "Being engaged to Mary will win you good faith with the board because it will lead them to believe that Stuart Tech will one day be under Valois, family businesses being what they are. _If_ they have a reason to believe that will happen, they will be more likely to approve funds and resources to protect future _assets_."

The way the word 'assets' hisses from his lips betrays the man who utters it. I try not to choke on the bile rising in my throat when I think of his greed, his desire for power in the business realm. I shake my head to clear it a bit before seeking to end this horrid exchange.

"I will have to confirm with Mary, of course." He nods his head – as if either of us really have a choice in the matter, knowing what is at stake. "But I will discuss this with her and, should she agree, we will inform you of any further plans."

I excuse myself from the room, leaving hastily before he can ask anything else of me. Looking around, I assume Mary has returned to her office and so I hurry to find her. She will undoubtedly be upset over my father's ruthless ego and I want to reassure her that I can take care of this.

Kenna blocks my way, however. She won't let me in to see her boss. I groan, giving voice to my dissatisfaction with how my day happens to be going. Her eyebrows quirk up at the guttural noise and I spot her stifling a smile.

"You'll have to schedule time with her." I blink, adjusting my view to include Kenna rather than the blinds shuttered on the windows of Mary's office.

"Excuse me?" I ask tentatively, not quite sure if I heard her correctly.

She rolls her eyes and taps her pen emphatically on the calendar at her desk. "You'll have to schedule something. She told me she wouldn't accept any meetings for the rest of the day."

_I understand not wanting to speak further with my father, but why doesn't she want to talk to me?_

My fingers rake their way through my hair as I sigh and resign myself to the fact we're not going to talk about this, at least not for the next several hours.

"Okay. What does she have open later in the week? I'm sure I'll talk to her before then, but it would be good to have a block of time … Friday, perhaps?"

Kenna flips through the pages, landing on the day. "She's free from 11:30 on," she states without looking up – waiting for me to respond so she can write me in or find a different page on which to do so.

A quick mental perusal of my own schedule reveals a similar workday. "Friday at 11:30, then." I watch Kenna scribble down my name next to the slot. "And Kenna?" She glances up. "She'll be out for the rest of the day. You should take the afternoon off."

* * *

Friday morning finds me a bit antsy. Mary hasn't been home since Tuesday, when we spoke to my father about helping her father's company. Well, Stephen tells me she's been home to retrieve a few things while I wasn't there – and then she has slept on Greer and Kenna's couch instead of in her own bed, which I've deduced from a handful of conversations with Greer in the days since.

She hasn't taken my calls, hasn't let me in to see her during the workday. The fact that I'm a peer and not a superior, that she answers to my father and him alone, has been a ready excuse wielded by Kenna at every opportunity.

But not today. Today, we are going to discuss this.

At 11:15, I leave my office and walk over to Mary's. As suspected, she half-sits, half-stands at her desk – trying to finish something up and with one foot already out the door.

"Going somewhere?"

My voice startles her and she sheepishly seeks for some words to explain away how she's trying to get out of the office before I arrive so that she doesn't have to spend the afternoon with me. Thankfully, my name being on the schedule and with the prospect of a free afternoon, Kenna let me approach without announcement. From what Greer has told me, it likely also has something to do with the fact that Kenna has already tired of Mary's sudden residency in their tiny apartment.

"I was … Um, I just thought I'd step out to get some – "

"Some more time away from me?" I finish, trying to get her eyes to meet mine. She dodges them, choosing instead to duck her head and reach for her purse.

"Kenna said we weren't coming back to the office?" she asks casually as we walk through the door and toward the elevator.

"No, we're not. You're stuck with me. We need to talk."

She rolls her eyes and in the movement I see a small piece of who she was four days ago – before my father decided to be an ass.

The elevator holds an ever-increasing awkward silence as we ride down to the lobby. No one else rides with us. I'm pretty sure they all know they don't want to be anywhere near the two of us.

I shift my feet as the bell dings and the doors slide open. Bash waits on the other side, at the ready. He's been waiting all morning to snag Mary if she tried to make a run for it.

"Hello there, Francis," he says. "Hello, Mary." Her eyebrows arch, indicating her suspicions have been roused – his presence must not be a typical encounter for her daily routine.

"Francis, what – " she starts to ask. I jump in, hoping to reroute her before she understands how many people I've put in play to make sure she actually spends the afternoon with me.

"I thought we could start with some lunch. What do you say?" She nods her head and strings her arm through mine as we emerge into the daylight, into public.

I barely hear her as my mind reels from the sudden shock of her fingers lazily tracing circles at the bend of my arm.

"Lead the way."

* * *

I've tried my best to plan an afternoon that holds as little pressure as possible. Lunch at the cafe down the street. A stroll in Central Park. Spontaneous lectures should we happen to pass one of my favorite bridges or buildings.

_Ring shopping._

Granted, I admit there's a lot of pressure there, but there shouldn't be. It's not as though we are _actually_ going to be engaged. We just have to pull off the external formalities of the arrangement. Ring. Newspaper announcement. Some sort of party I'm sure my mother will be roped into throwing.

_Public displays of affection._

This part remains the one piece I still haven't figured out. All of New York knows by now that when I date a girl, there's plenty of physicality involved. An unfortunate photograph of myself and my last girlfriend enjoying an afternoon in a local boathouse landed in the gossip column and took care of that. If society only sees me hold my fiancée's hand, it will bring every skeptic out of the proverbial woodwork.

Not that I haven't thought about what it would be like. Any warm-blooded male would be attracted to the dark-haired beauty who meanders alongside me in the park. That's not the issue. She didn't come here to be in a fake relationship. She came here to find a family, to put down real roots for the first time in nearly two decades. _She most certainly didn't come here for me. _I take the briefest of moments, however, to sneak a glimpse at her and wonder, recalling the conversations we've had since she arrived – _did she?_

Obviously, such thoughts will get me nowhere so I return my gaze to the path in front of my feet. I resolve that this arrangement reeks of convenience, of my parents' meddling. All I can hope to do is make it pleasant for her, to not stand in the way of what she seeks here in Manhattan.

"We have one last stop," I remark as we find one of the park's exits. I grab her hand and pull her along, attempting to convince myself that what I feel when I touch her is just the adrenaline of newness.

_This is certainly something new._

We halt in front of a jeweler and Mary looks at me quizzically. All I say as I lead her inside is, "We need to talk." Luckily, the owner – a family friend named Joseph Akers – expects us and has reserved a side room for us to see items and to discuss anything for any necessary length of time.

"Good afternoon, Francis." He turns to Mary with a slight tip of his head, "Ms. Stuart." Joseph pauses, taking in the puzzlement on her face. "Mr. Valois requested a private room for the two of you. Why don't we go discuss what you're looking for there?"

My hand naturally finds a place at the small of her back, guiding her toward the back of the store where Joseph opens a door to usher us inside. We all take seats around a low table.

"Now, Ms. Stuart, Francis has informed me that you require an important piece of jewelry to adorn your finger. Congratulations!" After thirty years in the business, I'm impressed that he still exudes as much excitement as he does. Noticeably stunned, Mary – not having been informed of any of this – rallies quickly.

"Thank you!" She gushes to the man before reaching over to grab my hand, stroking her fingers against my palm in a maddening fashion and squeezing at just the right point where she knows it'll hurt. "We are simply so excited! Why didn't you tell me we were coming here today, Francis?" Her inquiry lands with her full intention for it – laced with more than a hint of her irritation toward me.

"Oh, darling!" I plaster on my best, most charming smile and wink at her for the benefit of our audience. "I merely wanted it to be a surprise. Is that so terrible?"

We both laugh, though mine might be due to nerves and hers out of a need for vengeance. Joseph excuses himself to retrieve a few items and leaves us to ourselves.

No sooner than he has vacated the room do I feel the back of her hand smack angrily into my shoulder.

"Francis!" she hisses. "What are we doing here?"

I lean in and speak low, just in case our company should return sooner than expected. He might be a friend of the family, but not to the extent he should be made aware of what my father is pushing for with this 'engagement'.

"I spoke with my father." I have her attention. She barely breathes. "He said that if we were to formally announce our engagement, he would work to push through your request for resourcing Stuart Tech."

In a day filled with surprises, her gasp isn't one of them. I never expected her to be anything but surprised at my father's willingness to help after Tuesday's reluctance.

"What do you think?" I pause, but I can tell that she is still trying to pull her thoughts together. "I don't want you to do anything you're uncomfortable with, but this might be our only chance to help your father's company."

"I'd rather have a chance," she speaks softly, smiling. One of the few honest smiles I've seen this week. Something shimmers in her eyes, threatening to escape its boundaries in her joy.

I grip her hand a little tighter, having forgotten that I've held onto it the entire time since she grabbed hold of it earlier. The owner returns with a selection of small and round shiny and sparkly objects, requiring Mary to pull her hand out of my own for the time being.

Reluctantly, I let go.

And, it's in this moment – this very moment – that my reality hits me. This woman and making her happy could easily occupy me for the rest of my life and I wouldn't regret any of it.

Not a single thing.

* * *

Unsuccessful in our ring-scouting expedition, we stop off to grab a pint of gelato on the way home – some dark chocolate concoction that pairs well with the bottle of red wine I had Stephen retrieve from the cellar to let breathe. Entering the storefront, Mary procures the container from a freezer while I make my way to the lengthy queue. I recognize the man next to us in line.

"Tomás!" He turns at the sound of his name and extends his hand to me. "It's good to see you again. I thought you had returned to San Francisco?"

He laughs and the timbre of it makes me uneasy. "Sadly, I have not yet returned home. I still hope to finish negotiations with your father over our new line. Ah, Mary," he adds, turning to my companion. "It is good to see you again, as well."

She takes his proffered hand and I swear I see a slight flush sneak up her neck.

"As it is to see you, Tomás." Her response squeezes out and my curiosity as to how she knows Tomás increases with each moment we spend in this never-ending series of small steps forward to the cashier. Shifting the gelato from one hand to the other, Mary makes a point to snake her arm through mine.

"I do so hope you will consider my offer, Mary. Aviz would be honored to have you and I would love to see your father's good company restored to its former glory."

"I will give you a call early next week, Tomás." The cashier calls for the next customer and Tomás utters a hasty farewell before moving to the counter to pay for his items.

It is not difficult to notice the squirming. Even the arm resting haphazardly on mine has taken on tension. Her eyes refuse to look at me, casting themselves down to stare at the floor – or at the toes peeking out of her sandals. I can't tell which.

"Next!" The cashier's yell keeps me from starting in on Mary. My current state of confusion must rival what she felt as we walked into the jeweler this afternoon. I have no idea how she knows Tomás or what kind of offer he might have made her. The very thought of her having reason for either makes the little hairs on my arms stand on end – and that's impressive because it's too warm for that.

I realize that Mary has finished paying and we head silently toward the door. I'd like to be away from the crowds and in the privacy of our home before I question what just happened.

* * *

"What was that about?"

We barely have our feet through the door before I'm handing off the gelato to Stephen and laying into Mary. I know I'll regret my tone soon enough, with the way she's looking at me. Pulling her into the study, I tug the door shut. The short walk home was apparently sufficient for my confusion to simmer into something I'm now trying and failing to contain.

"What was what about, Francis? Tomás? Greer had a dinner meeting with him to discuss the PR risks associated with Valois using a startup's product. He picked her up at the apartment on Wednesday. We talked." She has yet to meet my eyes, confirming that she's hiding something in spite of how well her story fits.

"That's it?" I let the question sit there, waiting to see how she'll react. "What was he talking about, then, when he mentioned an offer?"

She sits down, reaching for a pillow to pick at, but I refuse to let her evade answering. My irritation deflates quickly as I watch her. I sit next to her and take the pillow, encouraging her to look up by holding my palm to her face.

"Mary? What did he mean?"

Her jaw relaxes a bit under my gesture and her hand stretches up to curve around mine. A frustrated sigh escapes as she begins to speak. "Tomás offered me a job with Aviz. He heard about the labor issue because he's close by in San Francisco. They have a lot of resources and he wants to help preserve my father's legacy."

"You sought out another job? I don't understand … " I pull my hand away from her face, my face falling.

"I did no such thing," she cuts in, fervent to make sure I believe her. "He asked for a meeting with me. I took it because he said he might be able to help. After that meeting with your father, I didn't exactly have many options."

My head nods in understanding. _Of course_. I'm really starting to look forward to the day when my father gets what's undoubtedly coming to him.

"I'm not going to take it," she says softly as she snatches back my hand. "I don't want to move again – you know that. I've spent my entire life moving from place to place, trying to figure out who I am. Your father presented us with a good option, so I don't need anything from Tomás. I'm not going anywhere." A shy smile tugs at her lips and I look down at our entwined hands, noticing the reassurance of my thumb stroking deeply into her palm.

"Good." I match her smile, my anxiety lessening.

"So … " she begins, a teasing hint in her amber eyes. "Gelato?"

* * *

I saunter into my father's office, my jaunty steps a reflection of the pride I feel at besting him. He looks up as I set a piece of paper before him. Looking it over, he chuckles with satisfaction.

"Well done, son." He claps his hands together in a sign of approval, then points at the page. "This will run Sunday in the _Times_?"

Nodding, I remain standing as I speak. I have no desire to spend more time than necessary with him today.

"It will. Mother is planning an event, as you requested, and the ring should be ready tomorrow. When can Mary meet with one of our lawyers regarding Stuart Tech?"

"Oh, no one will be resourcing Stuart Tech, Francis," he states smugly, leaning back in his chair.

"But that was the agreement! You told me it would be arranged if we formally announced our engagement." I feel my jaw clenching down, teeth against teeth. "We held up our end and now it's time for you to hold up yours."

"Francis," he starts. The maniacal gleam of his stare unnerves me. I've seen it before. "They are in some serious trouble and we're trying to go public. I won't risk it."

"But you said – " I try to get a word in, still baffled.

"I did, but things have changed. We have more information. I am pleased, however, at the imminent announcement of your engagement."

My mind scrambles to come up with some catalyst, some lynchpin to secure his promised support. That's when an idea hits me. It's not a normal move for me, but I'm desperate.

"I've seen the way you look at Mary's assistant, Kenna," I speak evenly. My father raises his eyebrows.

"What's this?" he mutters. If I didn't know better, I'd say he appears impressed by my gumption.

"Now, I don't know if you've slept with her yet," I continue, keeping a close watch to see his reaction. "But I do know that Mother has a way of making things rather difficult when she's aware of your infidelities. Diane comes to mind, actually."

"Fine," he says curtly after a long moment. Apparently, that little piece of information wields great power. My mother holds the purse strings in this family and if there's anything my father needs right now, it's her money.

"But you will answer to the board for what happens. That's what CEOs do – even future ones. I'll arrange for you to speak with them first thing Monday morning."

I can't get out of there quickly enough, grinning from ear to ear. Mary will want to know.

And I have the strong urge to celebrate.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Thanks to everyone over at Fanforum who helped me decide on TV shows for these two to watch together – and even to determine why or why not. It was a wonderful conversation! I've been trying to keep up with responding to reviews, but I think I'm behind a bit. If you're still waiting to hear from me, I hope to get in touch with you soon. These chapters are taking a really long time to craft. If I didn't have in mind certain stopping points for each of them, I'd post shorter chunks – but I just can't bring myself to do it. I hope they are worth the wait in between! The next chapter won't be up until sometime next week. I'm having surgery in the morning and will be out of commission for several days, unable to sit at a computer for any great length of time. So ... be patient, grasshoppers. ;)

**Disclaimer**: As has become typical, I've borrowed lines from the show itself and worked them into my own context. Some of them are direct and some have been slightly altered. I don't claim the brilliance as my own. That belongs to the writers for the first three episodes.


	5. FOUR: To hide, conceal

The lace curtains in the breakfast nook filter some of the bright summer sunshine. While I sit quietly enjoying the morning and my second cup of tea, my mind wanders over the ground of the past few weeks – traipsing by every small thing that has happened since I stepped off of the train at Penn Station.

I sigh loudly, shifting my right hand to support my chin as I lean into my palm, enjoying the ripe green of the backyard through the window. No one hears, however. Stephen has gone back to his post at the door; Sarah likely has found some remote corner yet to be dusted; and Francis set out early to run errands, or so Stephen tells me.

_Errands? Since when does Francis run his own errands?_

The thought nags at me, but I try to shove it aside. The unexpected opportunity to be alone gives me a rare chance to reflect on the fact I haven't often been alone since my arrival. In the routine of work and spending time with Francis, I wonder whether I've done what I came here to do – whether I've found myself at all in this city when I have failed in so many others.

Of course, I have to admit, I haven't really been trying. And, surprisingly, there has been freedom in that.

I haven't had to construct an identity. Sure, the engagement threw me at first, but re-discovering friendship with Francis has proven more natural than anything I've done in years. When I'm with him, I don't have to think about who I am. I just react to who he is and there's no anxiety, no strain. Simple.

When I'm around Greer or Kenna and they ask me how things are with him, I can easily shrug it off and say there's nothing there between us – but the moment he walks in a room, my entire body has a mind of its own. There's no denying the way I pull toward him, how I lean into his frame without cause. Since we've begun to make it a point to touch one another in public, it has gotten worse. The small trace of his fingers at my wrist; the pressure of his hand at my elbow; the light kisses he presses into my cheek or brow; the effortless way his arm loops around my waist at social functions – all have begun to cross over into our time alone together.

Some might say we're just particularly good at pretending, but I know better. I've pretended all my life.

_This isn't pretending._

At least it no longer is for me.

A smile forms on my face as I recall the way he ran up to me last night to share the news after his meeting with Henry. So much joy filled his eyes as he told me he had bested his father. He found a way to keep me here rather than for me to move to San Francisco and work for Aviz.

And then he hugged me. That's how I know this isn't just a game. Sitting here in the Saturday morning sunlight, ten hours and a shower later, I can still feel the heat of his skin against the open back of my dress; the grin of his lips against my shoulder; the manner in which my heart nearly stopped beating as he held my gaze. The heat currently rising on my cheeks testifies only partly to my reaction last night. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, grateful no one can see me.

Somehow, this man has managed to look straight through all the layers of who I've been and see me, _Mary_ – and, in spite of the mess of all those layers and the chaos that has been my life, he has still been willing to spend time with me, to try to make me laugh, to make sure I feel at home. It doesn't hurt that he also happens to be beautiful.

One question forces its way to the front of my internal musings: _Could I ever offer him all of me, both known and unknown?_

I shake my head and look at my watch, trying to retrieve some semblance of sanity after the rabbit trail I've followed for the last eighteen minutes. It won't do to entertain such wild ideas. I will need to rein in each and every one for the sake of being professional and for the sake of holding up my end of the engagement so I can help my father's business. It won't do to speculate whether the pretending has also ceased on his behalf.

Footsteps sound on the wooden floor in the hallway and I turn to see him enter. He hands something off to Stephen, gives him hushed instructions and comes to join me. Hopefully he won't notice that my tea has long grown cold as I've sat here.

"Good morning, Mary!" He's chipper, still basking in the delight of yesterday's victory. A little extra spunk marks his steps. Pulling a chair around next to my own, he perches on its edge and snags one of my hands. I try to keep my heart's rhythm slow, but I fail. His eyes find mine, an eagerness for something unknown to me set into them. "Do you have any plans for the day?"

_Why did he have to grab my hand? And what is he doing with his thumb?_

I attempt to overlook how his touch affects me. "No," I reply. "I thought I might spend some of the day reading or ask if Greer wanted to go shopping, but nothing definite." At least my voice doesn't shake as I expect it to. "Was there something you wanted to do?"

Anticipation builds at the thought of spending the day with him.

"Well," he begins. Somehow, his eyes twinkle. "If you're up for it, I have two ideas." I nod, indicating for him to continue. "The first is more business-related, but I think you'll find it a worthwhile endeavor. I'd like to come up with a strategic plan for resourcing your father's company to use in our pitch to the board on Monday."

An indefinable feeling wells within me as I look at the man before me, so willing to work on what I hold close to my heart. _On a Saturday, no less._ Tears begin to pool in my eyes, which he notices.

"I'm so sorry," he reaches his free hand up to sweep away a tear that has slipped out and onto my cheek. His blue eyes fill with concern. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I just thought it might be a good idea for us to be prepared."

A mangled, choked laugh erupts from my throat and I stretch my hand out across his jaw to assure him that I'm not upset. Inwardly, I curse my hand and its inability to stay away from him."That would be wonderful. Thank you." With this, his eyes return to their previously jubilant state while I remember that was only half of his plan. "What did you have in mind for the rest of the day?" I inquire.

"Ah," comes his response. "I was thinking we could go to dinner and then take a walk through the park. It's supposed to cool off once the sun goes down. What do you say?"

The proposition simple enough, I can't help but feel he has something planned that hasn't been revealed. The glint in his eyes is too mischievous for my liking, but he hasn't given me reason not to trust him. And, truth be told, I welcome the excuse to be alone with him and away from the staff and their prying eyes.

"That sounds fun." I watch his eyebrows quirk upward. Apparently, 'fun' wasn't quite what he was aiming for. "I'd love that," I amend. His expression softens.

"Excellent!" He stands up, excusing himself from the table. "Whenever you're ready to get started, come find me."

As I hear him retreat up the stairs toward his bedroom, I notice he seems happy. Considering our mode of operating usually involves staying in with a bottle of wine and a television show or going out with friends and family, I can't help but be curious at his desire for just the two of us to dine out tonight. And then it hits me and I wonder if I missed something.

_Is this a date?_

* * *

He's distracted as we walk, my arm strung through his. My mind buzzes from a little too much wine at dinner, which I had hoped might dampen my awareness of how close he is. Unfortunately, it appears that the opposite holds true. Everything seems slowed down, my senses heightened, so I can experience every piece of every moment and every touch.

I'm not in a hurry to speak, so I determine to give him some time while we walk. The night, as predicted, has cooled considerably and our stroll under the trees in the park proves lovely. I've never been here in the evening. The city, for all its press and chaos, somehow has begun to feel like a home – with this beautiful little island of serenity at its center.

When he does speak, he verbally confirms the plans we drew up this afternoon. Plans that have been committed to paper, which leaves me a bit confused. I don't know why he's rambling on about business items we have already discussed today. When I take a good look at him, he seems a bit jumpy, and for the first time tonight it registers that it was I who drank the majority of the bottle of wine at dinner. He merely had a single glass.

We near the lake and his chatter slows, settling us again into silence. He stops us and I attempt to sneak a glance at him. 'To sneak' implies the other doesn't see, which isn't possible when I find his eyes locked on me. His earlier joy has been replaced by something anxious, his gaze haunted. _What did I miss this time?_

Panic closes in on my heart, wondering what he knows that I don't. Before I give full passage to an unknown fear, however, I manage to utter a few words.

"Francis?" I take a deep breath. "Talk to me!"

All I want is an explanation, some reason for his worry. I don't expect him to fall forward and capture my lips with his own, his hands buried beneath my hair and warm against my neck. I don't expect the tug of his teeth or the gentle sweep of his tongue or the taste of him.

My mind spins blankly, my body humming as he pulls away. I can barely feel my feet, but I know my knees verge on buckling.

"You should take the job," he states. In my fogged state, I gape openly at him.

"At least to show my father that you're serious. That to keep you close, he and the board will have to provide for you. You need a second option, even with this meeting on Monday. From what I've heard, I don't think the board will be an easy sell."

"Franc–" Completely bewildered, I try to speak but he cuts me off.

"Can you say that I'm wrong?" he nearly shouts at me. "You need another option!"

"Yes," the word fights its way out. "Yes! I can say that you're wrong! I hate this plan of yours. I don't want another option." Anger surges in my chest. He looks taken aback by my outburst. Paired with the parts of me still grappling with the fact that _he just kissed me_, my fingers now finding their way to my lips, I recognize I'm on the brink of emotional combustion.

The storm clouds covering his eyes clear as he hears my words. "You don't?" he asks, suddenly quiet.

"No," I reach for him – my hand finding his jaw without hesitation, my fingertips floating through the curls behind his ear. "I don't." He exhales, drawing me into a full embrace.

"Are you sure?" I hear him whisper next to my ear. "Aviz's help would be sure. I can't guarantee Monday will go well."

"I'm sure," I murmur. "But can we talk about what just happened here?" I nervously query, leaning back a bit so I can watch him while he answers. A nervous laugh erupts and I can only see his blonde lashes as he squeezes shut his eyes.

"I've been wanting to do that for a while," he says timidly, opening one eye to peek out at me. I cannot hide the smile spreading across my face, the arrival of laughter not far behind.

* * *

As we come in the front door, Stephen greets us and politely asks how our night went. He glances at my ring finger, newly ornamented with a sparkly round bauble. I remember Francis handing something to him this morning.

"You knew, didn't you?" I chuckle as he grins.

"Yes, I did," he respectfully bows that little bow of his. "Now, may I find something for the two of you to celebrate with, perhaps some champagne?"

Francis nods. "That would be wonderful, Stephen. We will be in the living room."

"Champagne?" I question as we walk into my room so I can take off my shoes. "Are you trying to get me drunk? I have a bad track record with champagne … "

"No, I'm not trying to get you drunk," he shakes his head to emphasize the 'no'. "Though I do remember the story you told me about you and Greer after finals." He pauses to laugh. "I just thought it fitting to celebrate. The staff don't know this thing is a hoax – they just think we've been very self-controlled in my parents' absence."

"Of course," I wave my hand as I enter my closet to find some slippers. Re-emerging, I find an elastic to tie back my hair and pad back over to where he's leaning against the wall.

"When I woke up this morning, I never expected this," I stammer, the words spilling out before I can retain them. He reaches for my hand, tugging me closer. Luckily, he shut the door behind us and, hopefully, Stephen will not look for us here when he realizes we haven't yet made it to the living room.

"No?" he queries amusedly, his fingers grazing my hip.

"No," I return cheekily, though I opt not to smack him. "I didn't expect you to kiss me and tell me to go work for Aviz. And I most certainly didn't expect a real proposal for a fake engagement … "

"I just wanted you to be sure," he cuts in. "There's no turning back after this point. Tomorrow is a big day. Our announcement runs in the _Times_. My mother has a party planned at the house in Montauk. Everything will be fully public."

"And the kiss was because …"

"I figured we could use some practice before someone clamors for it," he teases before his expression returns to one of seriousness. "No, truly, I've been wanting to do that for weeks."

He catches my eye before his hand finds a resting place under my jaw, his thumb stroking circles just aside my ear. My body both relaxes and kindles under his touch.

"And the need for practice?" he drawls, leaning in and pressing a light kiss to my lips. "That's just an added bonus," he exhales.

Suddenly, the fatigue of the day washes over me and I realize the hour has crept past midnight. "If we are to have champagne, sir," I start, turning toward the door. "Then we should do so. It's getting late."

"It is, is it?" he asks, checking his watch. "We do have an early morning, don't we?"

"Yes, we do," I reply, twisting the doorknob and pulling him out into the hallway. "And I'm sure your mother has a few surprises up her sleeve."

"Ah, yes," he sighs, running his hands through his hair – something I now have experience doing myself. "I'm sure she does."

* * *

The train stops in Montauk and we disembark. I'm still amazed I managed to convince Francis to travel this way, rather than to take the car his mother would have preferred. Certainly, she'll make us take the car back into the city but I, for one, am glad to have had our hours on the train together.

After traveling across the country, the four-hour ride seems blissfully short. Just enough time to read, enjoy brunch and watch the various harbors and bays through the wide windows – and, of course, it proved delightful to experience such things with Francis at my side.

With one hand he deftly stacks his small overnight bag on top of mine and reaches out for my hand with the other. Apparently, we are going to be _those_ people today.

In the Plaza, he leads us to a place where we can sit and wait for a cab. Catherine expects us delivered to her door, not requiring pick-up in town. When one appears, Francis quickly deposits our bags in the trunk and gives the driver directions to his parents' house.

I rest my head on his shoulder as the car lurches forward. All morning, I've tried to distract myself from the unfamiliar feel of the new metal circlet on my ring finger. But, here, in the quiet, I can examine it fully in the sunlight.

It's unlike anything we saw at the jeweller's, which I know to be especially true because Francis told me it didn't come from there. A family heirloom. Simple. Classic. Just right.

I don't know much about diamonds or their settings, but I do know that I like this one. If I'm to be falsely engaged to a son of old wealth, I suppose such things come with the territory.

Francis chuckles as we pull up to the house, making me aware of how little I've paid attention to our short trip from the Plaza. We step out of the car, retrieve our bags and make our way up the steps. Catherine and the boys rush out to greet us, Catherine crowing over how wonderful it is to see her grandmother's ring on a young hand. Somehow, I get the impression she suspects the nature of my relationship with her son has changed and is no longer fully a ruse. Mother's intuition, perhaps. Or maybe Francis has shared with her.

Our welcome is short-lived, as she immediately begins relaying details for the evening's festivities and directing us to where we will be staying overnight.

"This is the guest house, as Francis is aware. I assume you will both be comfortable enough out here. The main house can be a bit noisy with the boys running amok." I glance at Francis, unsure of how to react to her desire that we stay in the same room. _Isn't that considered improper?_ He, however, remains unfazed, as if he expected such a thing.

"There are a few dresses and suits for you to consider, hanging in the closet. Mary, I got your sizes from Elisabeth. A few pieces of jewelry are in the box on top of the dresser, should you need something. If possible," she eyes Francis and wags her finger between the two of us. "Try to match a little. Everyone will love that." She steers us back toward the house along a stone path and we arrive at what appears to be the lawn. Preparations are underway in every direction, with hired staff working to set up and dress tables, beginning the early stages of food service, and assembling a dance floor off to one side.

"You remember my good friend, Nostradamus, don't you, Francis? He'll be setting up a fortune telling booth to add some whimsy to tonight." We nod to the man, who mutters some sort of greeting in return. To me, his presence seems less whimsical than mysterious. I will have to remember to ask Francis about him later.

Catherine pauses here, shrewdly checking off her mental to-do list as she scans the various vendors. "Speaking of Elisabeth, she and Philip should be arriving soon," she says quickly before disappearing and leaving us.

Francis guides me back toward the main house, hoping to give me a tour if it's not too crowded. The family has summered here for years, an old holding of Catherine's family that passed to her in the years after I left them as a child. Upon entering the back door, however, we find ourselves accosted by two young boys who appear antsy to get out of the house.

"Francis! Francis! Can you walk with us down to the beach? Please? Pretty please?" Little Henry's bottom lip sticks out in an impressive pout, one I'm not inclined to deny. I look to Francis, squatting on the floor to be at the boys' level. I can tell he's assessing the remaining hours of the afternoon in his head before he commits. He smiles.

"Only for an hour, okay? Mary and I have to come back to get ready for the party, and I'm sure it will take plenty of time to shake the sand out of your shorts, as well. Deal?" He holds out his hand and each brother takes a turn shaking it in accord.

"Well, Mary," he stands upright, this time offering me his hand. "How do you feel about an afternoon walk down to the beach? The Bay is beautiful at this time of day."

"I'd love to," I respond, twining my fingers through his. He gestures to Charles and Henry, who run a little ahead of us down a narrow sand path that leads to the water.

* * *

We've shared a house for months, but we've never shared so little space as this. The guest house has one bed, one bathroom. Granted, both are large, but neither allows for much privacy. Our attempts to get ready after our beach outing have been a complicated dance, stepping around each other to find clothing and make use of the one shower.

Knowing my hair would take longer to dry and put up, Francis let me shower first. Thankfully, spreading my hair through my fingers against the blow dryer's flow keeps me from focusing too much on the fact that he's now having his own turn to do so in the next room. While I have two perfectly reasonable excuses to be warm, neither are the cause for the heat on my neck.

I hear the water shut off and try to fixate on my nearly dry hair, deciding how to style it. The length makes a French twist difficult, so I settle on a classic bun. Simple enough to avoid having to touch up my curls, but intentional and elegant enough to be suitable for the occasion. Pins in hand, I begin to wind and fasten inch by inch into that familiar spiral. Nearly halfway done, I hear the door creak and Francis' voice through the opening.

"Why don't you just wear it down?"

Turning to look at him so I can determine whether he's joking, I find him peeking through the door. Only a towel adorns his waist. A smirk graces his features as he watches me. My tongue refuses to move and make sounds, my mind having petered out the moment it registered his bare skin.

"Mary?"

I snap to at my name, shaking my head from side to side, trying to re-engage with his inquiry regarding my hair. "Why would I wear it down? It's a formal event." My face must read puzzled, as he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

"I just like it down, that's all. Besides, it's summer. No one will mind." He points to his overnight bag, laid on top of one side of the bed. "I forgot to grab that and I can't really get dressed without some things inside. Could you hand it to me?"

My hair forgotten, I retrieve the bag and hand it to him through the door. For what I assume is my benefit, he closes it quickly and leaves me to finish my primping. I pull out the pins, piling them one atop another on top of the antique vanity. I grip the handle of my brush and run the bristles back through my hair, unkinking the few twists that remain from my attempts at an up-do. My fingers snag a few pieces toward the front and weave a small braid, twisting it back with a few other loose strands and pin them all in place above my temple. It might be down overall, but at least there's a little something of interest.

I pull out some berry-colored lip stain, avoiding the heaviness of a traditional lipstick. Merely a hint of blush is needed to color the apples of my cheeks, as the remnants of my earlier flush indicate I likely won't need more than that. For my eyes, I follow the routine Greer taught me in college – lids that sparkle a bit more than they naturally would with just a hint of color, definition added with blended liner on my waterline. Simple and elegant. Hopefully Catherine won't be disappointed with how simple.

The door opens again, wider this time, and Francis emerges. His shirt untucked and unbuttoned, he wanders into the room, stopping just beside the vanity where I'm seated and offering me a hand to get up.

"You look beautiful," he reassures, noticing the frown on my face as I consider the possibility of Catherine's disapproval. "Don't worry. Everyone will love you, including my mother." We've made a habit of touching one another for weeks but, as his hands find my waist, I'm again in awe of how comfortable I am with him. Somehow, we have transitioned effortlessly from this crazy plan of his parents' to something we both actually _want_. I begin to work the buttons on his shirt as he fingers the gauzy material that makes up my dress. Reaching the last button, I secure it in place and move to wrest myself from his grasp, but he won't let me.

"Francis!" I roll my eyes. "Your mother will come looking for us if we don't appear in the next few minutes. We are running out of–"

He cuts me off with a lingering kiss, one that I feel down in the arches of my feet. The smell of him, clean and fresh and emanating the heat of his shower, overpowers my senses. If he can't keep that charm of his in check, tonight will be a long night. Pulling away, he rests his forehead against mine.

"I just wanted to do that before we were interrupted. Now, where are my jacket and tie?"

* * *

"Greer, have you met Jonathan?" I turn to look at her as he extends a hand. "Jonathan's family heads up one of the oldest and most reputed banks on the East Coast. Jonathan," my eyes return to him. "Greer is our PR director at Valois and a dear friend from college."

The two begin chatting and I excuse myself, hoping it will be the last introduction Greer requests of me this evening. Understandably, she's trying to find someone worthy of her family's definition of 'respectable', but I determine to let her know that if she wants to meet more than the five eligible bachelors I've introduced her to tonight, she'll have to tell me something egregiously wrong about each of them. Besides, I've seen more sparks fly between her and Leith than with any of these men. _Is there no place in her life for love?_

"Kenna," I tap my friend on the shoulder. She's distracted, her sight fixed on something. Perhaps she's hoping for a chance with the talent scout I know Catherine put on the guest list. "Have you seen Francis?"

"Ah," she replies. Her stare doesn't alter, her hand limply pointing to where Francis and his father are surrounded by business associates near the bar. "They've been there for half an hour or so."

I don't really want to know why she's been keeping tabs on how long Henry and his cronies have been by the bar. Or anywhere else, for that matter. "Thank you, Kenna," I mutter. "Can I get you anything? I was going to grab a drink."

"No," she says, holding up her recently topped-off wine glass. "I'm good. Have you seen Aylee or Lola?" she asks, half-heartedly, not taking her eyes off of the group at the bar. "I've been looking for them all night."

Shaking my head, I mumble something about how she should text them and head toward the bar. Most of the faces I recognize, many of them belonging to the board whom we'll stand before tomorrow to fight for my father's company. But tonight isn't about that, I remind myself. Tonight, they have come to celebrate.

As I step up to the group of laughing, half-drunk men, I realize the muscles in my face ache – likely from the smile I've worn all evening. I order a glass of wine at the bar, then lightly set my hand at Francis' elbow. He angles to get a better view of me alongside him and slips his arm around my shoulder, rubbing his hand against the topmost part of my arm. "You all know the reason for this grand occasion, don't you?" he addresses the men in the circle. "Gentlemen, you remember Mary?"

His words are greeted by nods and grunts of agreement. He turns back to me, a desperate expression in his eyes. "Did you need something, darling?"

I swallow a giggle. He _has_ been here for a while, as Kenna said. Shaking my head, I respond, "I just stopped by for a new drink and figured I would see how your evening was going." I brush a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, tucking it gently behind his ear, and teasingly press a kiss near the junction of his earlobe and jawline.

"Mary," he nearly growls. "We can't. The party?"

Fighting the urge to pout, I see the bartender finish pouring my drink behind the bar. "Somewhere else, then? The garden; fifteen minutes," I whisper in his ear. Smiling, I excuse myself and retrieve my wine. I take a sip so I don't spill its overfull contents as I walk and set out to see if I can find Aylee and Lola.

* * *

I wander into the gardens, finding them bathed in moonlight and fragrant with the flowers and spices the gardener keeps throughout the year. The third and latest glass of wine has settled into my system, removing the fear of recklessness from my brazen request twenty minutes earlier. A breeze blows and I shiver against the night's incoming chill. I linger a while, enjoying the delightful hum in my head, before finally hearing someone come alongside me.

"I almost thought you weren't coming." My voice rings soft, coy.

"Tomás showed up just after you left us," he sighs. "When I think that you might have to go work for him, I – "

"Thank you, but you don't need to worry," I try to assuage the burden in his eyes. "I'll be fine. Now come, stand over here with me." We move toward the arbor in the back corner, knowing its leaves will hide us from anyone who might stray into the gardens.

"I don't trust him. There are rumors he's gone behind the back of his business partners to broker a deal with a larger corporation." Apparently, his concern hasn't been redirected. I snag his hand, tugging him toward where I'm leaning against the arbor's trellis.

"There are always rumors in business. Do you know what they say about you?" I can't help the way my head tilts up, reveling in the baffled look that appears on his face. "They say you keep so much to yourself that you must be sickly, disturbed." My ribbing results in a chuckle from him, encouraging further teasing. "And the fact you haven't been caught with a woman since that incident in the boathouse? Apparently, that's code for … "

He cuts me off, pinning me to the arbor and arresting my lips with his own. My train of thought has left, never to return. The only things I understand are the feel of the leaves at my back and some new urge never to let him stop doing whatever it is he's doing with his tongue.

Pulling back, he regroups, letting our lungs drink in the night air as they begin to scream their need. His hand reaches up to cup my face, gathering me to him again. His lips demand every ounce of attention I can provide before they move to my neck, nipping gently at my ear.

I gasp. All at once, every inch of me flames and gives way – none of my strength or earlier chill remains. 'Weak-kneed' doesn't begin to capture it. His teeth bite at my lower lip, taking his sweet time as he pulls it through them. His palm slips down the front of my dress, gliding over my breast and down to my waist, while his mouth returns to mine. Gentler this time, his lips tug at my own, reluctant to let go. Mixed with the wine, my mental state is heady at best.

Over the hedge, I hear a voice rise above the music, reminding everyone to stick around – that dessert will be served as soon as they can locate the couple of the evening.

My face flushes at the thought of what the 'couple of the evening' is currently engaged in. Somehow, our bodies have pressed themselves together – as close as they can be, I suppose, considering our attire. Certainly, my lips must be swollen, my hair wild. At the sound of the music resuming, Francis leans his forehead against mine.

"We should probably head back to the party, shouldn't we?"

"Yes, we probably should," I shakily reply. "But maybe we could stop off at the guest house first," I pause, catching my breath. "You know, to make sure we look presentable."

He helps me away from the arbor and picks a stray leaf out of my hair, laughing. "I think that might be a wise idea. Here," he points in a direction different from the way I entered. "We can hopefully avoid being seen if we go this way."

* * *

The morning light radiates through the guest house windows as my eyes strain to adjust. For twenty-three years, I have slept alone. The weight of an arm around my middle betrays the fact I can no longer claim such a thing. I assess my position and attempt to identify a means of escape without waking my bed-mate, but I fail.

"What time is it?" I hear a groggy voice behind me and feel his arm tighten. He must know I'm awake. Twisting my body to lay on my other side, my breath hitches at the sight of him. Previously sprawled out, he has managed to prop himself up on one elbow, his hand behind his head.

"6:30," I relay softly. _Is this what it's like to wake next to someone you trust every morning?_ "The car should arrive at 9. I think your mother expects us for breakfast."

"I'm sure she does," he says, reaching out to push my hair back across my bare shoulder. "About last night … "

"Thank you for understanding," I hurriedly interject. My waking comfort has been suddenly displaced by the memory of how things ended as we stumbled in after the party, nearly taking full advantage of our intoxicated state, yet awkwardly stopping ourselves as we fell onto the bed. Reaching out my arm, I trace circles on his bare chest with my fingers. He stills their movement by grasping them in place over his heart.

"Don't worry about it," he asserts, never once taking his eyes from mine and offering me a smile of assurance. "Though I do understand now why Greer doesn't let you drink too much … " I reach up to smack him playfully as a grin spreads wildly across his face.

"Are you ready for today?" he asks cautiously; his expression sincere, sober.

I take a deep breath as I sit up, my back coming to rest against the headboard. "As ready as I can be, I suppose." He situates his body in an upright position so it faces mine. "I don't know what I'll do if they don't," I stammer. "If they won't … "

My face falls and I find myself fiddling with the bed-sheet, unable to complete the thought. He presses his thumb under my chin, redirecting my gaze upward at him once more.

"You can't think that way. We'll cross that bridge if we come upon it, all right?" His eyes hold mine, coaxing me to have faith in what the day will bring. Those eyes – such a sparkly blue first thing in the morning, like the sunlight as it dances on the water.

I nod. "Of course," I whisper, unsure of what else to say.

"Well," he begins. I glance over and he offers me a wink. "We should probably get out of bed, shouldn't we?"

* * *

"I don't understand." Francis ushers me into the waiting car and moves to get in on the other side. He's trying to get me out of here quickly, shocked and stunned as I am. For the last ten minutes, since we left the board room, all I've been able to say has been some version of the same thing.

He slides over so he can sit next to me and take hold of my hand. His warmth is the only thing about my new surroundings that registers.

"Mary?" he implores. "Come on, Mary. Look at me."

I slowly raise my eyes to meet his. Certainly they reflect my confusion and fear. His only return his own apprehensions, mostly for me. As soon as our eyes lock, mine brim with tears. _What happened?_

"I don't understand, Francis."

"I know you don't. I'm not sure I do, either. We'll just have to see when we get home."

"But what did they mean, 'a threat'?" I ask. "What kind of threat would require the authorities?"

His fingers try to soothe with their caressing of my palm. "I don't know, but we'll be there soon enough."

The car travels the several blocks to the Valois home and stops in the middle of the street to let us out. Normally, the driver would pull to the curb, but police and federal vehicles have parked there. Francis and I exchange a nervous glance. I'm pretty sure I'm shaking.

We timidly walk through the door, held open valiantly by Stephen – who I can tell is also shaken by whatever this most recent news happens to be. He informs us that there are men waiting for us in the living room and kindly asks if he can get us anything.

The men greet us as we enter and Francis invites everyone to take a seat. He makes a point to sit both of us down together so he can snake an arm around my shoulders.

"What can we do for you gentlemen this afternoon?"

"Well," says the first – a Mr. Grant, if I recall correctly. "There has been a threat that, for the time being, we are taking very seriously." Francis motions for the man to continue, so he does. "Someone called every Valois board member this morning and threatened your father's life if any effort was made to help Stuart Technologies, which I believe to be your inheritance – is that correct, Ms. Stuart?"

I nod mutely, my heart racing, my thoughts adrift. _Is this even the same day I woke up to this morning? Surely, we cannot be sitting here, listening to men discuss what might happen to Henry should I receive the help I need? What if whoever is responsible were to follow through? What if it's just like what happened to my own father so many years ago? What if I'm the reason … "_

The panic increases until I feel Francis nudge me with his hand. "Mary?" My mind circles back, clearing again if only for a moment. "Did you hear what they said?" he questions.

My head shakes back and forth, letting him know I haven't been listening as the men have continued to unveil plans for dealing with this particular risk. Francis sighs, raking his free hand through his curls. He appears exhausted, defeated. I try to piece the conversation together, to no avail. _What did the men say?_

"They're worried about the risk to the entire family, which includes _you_. They want to split us up and take us to safe locations for a few days until they have a better handle on things."

Fear paralyzes me. I've done this before, having been moved to safe places so many times over the last sixteen years. _I don't want to be alone again. _

"Mary?" he tries to garner my attention again, this time reaching for my hand and squeezing my fingers gently. My head snaps up to find his stare as intent as always. "I volunteered to go with you, if that's all right. We'll leave tomorrow morning."

Something within me breathes again at his words, though my own still fail me, and I nod once more to indicate that I'm all right with the arrangement. I sit and listen to Francis as he discusses the final details with the officers, accepting a mug of tea from Sarah as she makes her rounds.

The officers eventually disperse throughout the house to ensure its security for the night and Francis escorts me to my room, helping me remove my dress and my shoes and slip into something more appropriate for sleeping. Somehow, the excitement of the past few days has made me extremely drowsy – even though it isn't yet dark outside. He tucks me in beneath the covers, kisses my forehead, and reminds me that he will be just upstairs if I need anything.

And that's the last thing I remember.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Thank you so much for your patience this last week and a half. My surgery went well, but recovery has been a bit more drawn out than expected, which delayed some of this chapter's writing. To be fair, some sections were initially written on painkillers, but hopefully with non-drugged editing, they still remain true to the characters and story.

This is where the story I'm telling diverges most from canon. Here, you find the first half of a 104/107 plot combo, skipping over the awful parts of 105/106. That's why so much of this chapter is fluffy, an extension of the bliss that was pre-Olivia 105. In my universe there is no triangle, no metaphorical paganism, no return of Olivia. It required some creativity, but I feel like I landed on a plot-line that works regardless. I'm sure you'll tell me if it doesn't! :)

**Disclaimer**: Again, this chapter borrows from several episodes for dialogue, mostly "Kissed" (103) and "Hearts and Minds" (104). I think those are all, but I might have missed a few others slipped in here or there. The alterations are mine; the genius belongs to the writers and the CW.


	6. FIVE: To offer refuge to (Part One)

The screaming registers first as I wander about my room, packing some clothing into my overnight bag. The fact that the scream belongs to Mary registers a fast second.

My hands quickly drop the shirt I've just retrieved from my closet and I'm through the door, my feet pounding down the staircase faster than I think I ever remember moving. I reach her door and push my way in, past the officers hovering about.

And that's when I see her.

They've managed to help her upright and away from her bed. A sea of enlarged photographs floats on top of her bedcovers, absent only in the portion where I assume she slept.

I step over to the armchair where she sits, shaking. Non-responsive. Gibbering a little. As confounded as I am by what I've found, I must admit to the terror of it all as well. Coming alongside her, I crouch down and reach for her hand, hoping to have her look up and meet my eyes.

But I see the green ribbon first, tied neatly around her right wrist. Looking up, I see that's where her eyes are fixated.

The officer to my left mentions that she hasn't responded since they rushed into the room – that she has simply stared at the ribbon, quaking.

"Is there anything I can try to get her to respond?" I ask, wracking my own mind for ideas.

"Sometimes, removing the point of fixation helps – in this case, the ribbon. Water, maybe? Anything, really, to shock the system back to normal." He remains calm, which baffles me.

"Do you think we could arrange for the ribbon to be photographed before I remove it, in case we need it for evidence?" My question seems silly, but the ribbon obviously means _something_. Perhaps it will prove useful in determining the source of these threats.

"Sure," the man replies. "Just a moment."

I wait while he obtains a camera and hold tightly to Mary's left hand in the meantime, fingering her engagement ring as a means to distract myself. The longer she continues to rock back and forth, the more panic rises within me – the need to remedy the situation becoming more and more urgent. Though a grown woman sits before me, I can't close my eyes without seeing her at six, sitting next to me but not moving for hours. No words. Just fear.

By the time he returns, I have a plan in mind. He takes his time photographing Mary's hands, then has me stand her up so he can take a full photograph of her in the case that they've missed something.

"We need to get her out of here," I speak forcefully as I look around at the room. "Can I take her upstairs?"

"Sure," he nods. Certainly not the chattiest or most empathetic of fellows.

I wrestle with her limp frame, trying to position myself so I can support her weight and get her up the stairs and away from what has become a crime scene. For a moment, her focus breaks as I shift her arm so it falls across my shoulders. I hear her voice breathe out weakly, "Francis?"

She shudders and resumes her trembling. Her eyes must have caught a glimpse of the ribbon again. I move us slowly into the hallway, fighting the sobs threatening to make their way out of my own chest at seeing her in her current state.

"Come on, Mary," I plead, pulling her up stair by stair. Her shaking makes me fear I'll somehow lose my hold on her, so I stop halfway to make sure she's still secure in my grip. A few moments later, we step onto the landing and make our way toward my door.

My adrenaline begins to wane as I guide her into the bathroom that adjoins my room, fatigue taking its place. I reach around the curtain and into the shower, turning the handle to where I know it will be warm enough.

I prop her up against the wall and work to remove the ribbon from her wrist, the knot proving a slight challenge but giving way with a little persistence. I place it on the counter and watch her gaze drift with it.

_Something has to change here._

When we were six, it took me months to draw her out of this state. Fear spreads through me when I think of having her gone from me for that long again. I refuse to let that happen.

My hand pulls the curtain aside and drags us both inside under the spray. It matters little to me that we're both fully clothed. I just want this madness to stop.

She sputters as the water hits her face, her mouth taking in the stream as she gasps for air and her eyes widening at the startling suddenness of being wet.

"Mary!" I take her face in my hands, my voice imploring. "Mary? Look at me!" Her brown eyes finally glance up, blinking wildly. There is no grace to how hastily I take her into my arms, hers tentatively reaching up to wrap around my neck as she buries her face in my shoulder and whimpers. She weeps and I weep with her, not fully understanding but still fully grateful she has come back to me.

* * *

"That's right, Kenna … Yes, hold everything and reschedule my meetin– We should be back in the office Friday morning … It _was_ very generous of Henry and Catherine, wasn't it?"

I hear the strain in Mary's voice, her attempts to be joyful – in the lie that my parents have gifted us with a few days away to celebrate our engagement – proving a little thin. My own phone call to Natalia done with, I watch the landscape as it rolls by outside the window, constantly changing. Our driver has yet to tell us where we are going.

"Of course, Ken– Please take the day tomorrow … Uh-huh. Yes. Thank you, Kenna. Goodbye."

She finishes and sets her phone down in her lap, sighing loudly. This unexpected 'trip' will cause several delays with the public filing, but we don't have any control over the matter. My father will undoubtedly be furious.

Unbuckling her seatbelt, she slides down the seat and reaches for the middle belt. She tucks herself beneath my lifted arm and settles her head against my chest. I desperately hope she sleeps, given the events of the last several hours. Shaky breaths rattle in and out of the cage of her lungs for a while. I continue to watch as New York fades into Connecticut. Eventually, I feel her body relax against mine, her breathing even.

Somewhere in the middle of Massachusetts, I start trying to digest all that has happened since this time last week. _Well, not even a week_. I shift in my seat, trying not to jostle Mary as she sleeps against me. Three days ago, I took her on our first real date – made so by my actions and not necessarily by intent. As we walked through the park, I realized how much I wanted to be with her and how irresponsible that was considering I couldn't guarantee what she needed.

And, in the midst of my own mental conflict, I did the only thing I could think of: I kissed her.

I don't think anything prepared me for what that would lead to over the last few days. The weeks of touches, of pressing small kisses onto her cheek, of smelling her scent as she stood next to me whenever we were in public – it caused an acceleration in physicality I don't think either of us intended. I may have jested about the staff believing we have been behaving ourselves in my parents' absence, but all bets are off now that I've tasted the sweet flesh at her neck, heard her gasp under the moonlight and seen her skin glow come morning.

This whole situation began as a ruse, an attempt by my father to wield power. In spite of my initial reluctance, however, the irony is that we now wield our own power by choosing to be together. She understands me better than any woman I've ever known; she laughs at my feeble attempts at humor; and she's still the beautiful, kind-hearted girl I got into trouble with on a regular basis as a child.

It's a good thing my parents don't know what almost happened in their guest house Sunday night after the party, but I can't help smiling at the memory. Mary, lightweight that she is, drank a glass or two more than she should have in her attempts to endure the endless social gathering that is any event planned by my mother. Personally, I would like to say I was perfectly sober, but that would be a lie. After dessert, as the night wore on and I spoke with colleagues and board members and family friends, I was never without a drink in my hand. Convenient for taking my mind off of how it felt to have Mary up against that arbor in the gardens, but not so much for exercising business acumen or wise decision-making skills.

And, so, as the last of the guests departed and we were freed for the sake of sleep, we both stumbled into the guest house with our last drinks swiftly making their way into our bloodstreams. I had never seen her drunk, as she has always made a habit of being extremely cautious. Inhibition quickly found its place on the floor along with most of our clothing.

Intoxicated as I was, I still knew one thing as we walked toward the bed: This was not how I wanted this to happen. Not the first time. I didn't want her to regret anything other than her impending hangover. So I stopped it, which might be one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do.

The truth remains that Mary Stuart is beautiful in every way, with 'beautiful' barely capturing what I saw that night. Those first few days after she arrived, I was so foolish to think I could ever resist her charm and kindness.

I lean down and touch my lips to her temple. She adjusts, nestling herself closer to me in her sleep.

_What did I do to deserve this? _

We pass into Vermont and my mind turns to yet another unsettling conversation I've had with my father, this one taking place last night after we were briefed and I regrettably put Mary into her own bed.

His simple question sticks with me because of what it reveals about his loyalties – _With this latest threat, is it worthwhile to retain ties with Mary?_

What he doesn't know is that I would go to great lengths to retain such ties, especially now. My answer will always be a resounding 'yes' when it comes to her.

* * *

Mid-afternoon, we pull into the wooded drive of a modest cabin near a ski town. John and Pete, our drivers and source of protection while out of the city, inform us that Mary and I will be staying inside while they keep watch around the clock – just in case. They open the door to the small building and sweep through it to make sure everything is as it should be before inviting us to enter, set down our things and rest. From my vantage point, I spy a single bedroom and bathroom, an open kitchen and dining space, and a living area with a fireplace I doubt we will make use of. All simply furnished, but clean. It will definitely do for a few days.

As he and Pete duck back outside, John mentions his plan to head into town and get some dinner for the four of us. For the first time in hours, Mary and I are finally alone.

"How are you doing?" I ask cautiously, moving to sit beside her on the couch where she has allowed her tired frame to sink.

"How much danger am I in?" she inquires worriedly, her voice soft though there's no longer anyone around to overhear. Her eyes undauntedly meet mine.

Every ounce of air seems squeezed from my lungs as I hear her question, simply because I have no answers for her. "I don't know," I reply. "But we're going to find out. They'll let us know more when they can. Until then," I smile, attempting to reassure her. "We'll simply need to find something to keep us occupied."

She nods and I see her fighting the urge to retreat fully into herself in our new surroundings. I hesitate to bring up the topic, but we haven't spoken about what she found when she awoke this morning. Something in me needs to know what prompted her to shut down altogether.

"Mary?" I stretch for her right hand and begin tracing the path of the now-absent ribbon with my thumb. "Can we talk about what happened this morning?" She hesitates, but nods mutely.

I breathe deeply and give voice to what I've wondered about all day. "What was the green ribbon?" My hand hasn't moved, my fingers still padding their way around her wrist.

Fear flits past her eyes but it doesn't linger there, something for which I realize I'm incredibly grateful. She steels herself to speak. I refuse to rush her, instead giving her every second she needs. In time, her mouth opens and she utters, "My father had the same."

"Your father?" I confirm, perplexed for the moment as I scour my memory to recall what I know of her father.

"When I found him ... " The words barely audible to start, they trail when she can't continue. She looks away and I note the twinge of emotion as it crumples her face, if only for a moment. I know she wants to be brave in this, but I want to tell her she doesn't have to be, that it's probably healthier if she would just let herself _feel_. She falls into me, burying her head under my chin as my arms wrap around her. We remain just like this for quite a while, our understanding of time lost.

"Mary," I say softly, voice cracking a little from my own emotion at seeing her like this. "I'm so sorry."

"They must have drugged me," she musters. "There's no way I could have slept through that." Defeat rings in her words.

"Maybe they'll have some information for us when they get back," I offer. "Maybe – "

A knock at the door interrupts my train of thought. I cross the room and open it to find John holding a paper bag with what I assume to be food inside. _That was fast_. "I saw you two talking through the window," he says. "I didn't want to interrupt, but I also didn't want the food to get cold. Here," he hands me the bag. "It's Thai – a little bit of everything. Let us know when you're ready for an update on the investigation."

I accept the bag, surprised at its heft, and step aside to motion him in through the door. "I think it best if we know sooner rather than later, if you're all right with that."

"Of course," he responds, entering the room, Pete close behind. "It makes sense that you would want to know."

The two men drop into chairs at the table as Mary walks over from the couch. I expand the bag and peer inside, removing its contents and setting them on the table. Behind me, I hear Mary opening and shutting kitchen cabinets, presumably looking for some plates and flatware. The bag now empty, I fold it and set it on the counter. She walks over; four plates, forks and knives in her hands.

"I assume you haven't eaten?" she kindly asks our security detail. "There's plenty for all of us, from the look of it." Smiling shyly, she distributes the plates and cutlery and sits down while I open containers. Soon enough, each of us has a full plate. As we eat, John and Pete take turns relaying what little has been uncovered since we left the city this morning.

"Well," John begins. "As you know, someone managed to slip past our guard last night and into your room, Ms. Stuart. We regret that terribly. After we left this morning, our colleagues questioned the household staff and everyone who had access to the house overnight. One could not be located. Your maid, Sarah, has disappeared. A look at her accounts suggests someone paid her a substantial sum to scare you." He looks at Mary empathetically. "When we traced the money, we discovered that it led back to a shell company set up by Tudor Enterprises."

I hear Mary's sharp intake of breath as she gasps in the chair next to me. Instinctively, I drop my fork and reach for her hand, clasping it on top of the table. She twists her head slightly so she can look at me and mutters, "Sarah gave me some tea. That must have been it." Remembering her sudden onset of sleepiness last night, I have to agree. Sarah must have drugged Mary so she wouldn't be interrupted as she carried out her task.

It seems so absurd to be sitting here, listening to federal agents relay our involvement in a corporate feud nearly two decades old. I run my hand over my face, incredulous. If I weren't here myself, I wouldn't believe it. And, yet, here we are.

Pete takes over, giving John a chance to eat. "The connection to Tudor didn't really surprise anyone after what we found on your wrist this morning, Ms. Stuart. Public knowledge of what police discovered at your home and in your father's office is extremely limited, much of it never coming to light during either trial as it was not needed."

Mary's attention holds to Pete's every word, her dinner long forgotten.

"Now, we are not at all certain how unreleased photographs from the scene of your father's murder wound up in your bedroom." My head bolts upright. I remember seeing the images on Mary's bed, but my focus had been her. Combing my memory of the morning, I realize I never saw what was pictured. _Police photographs of her father's murder?_ Any last trace of curiosity as to why she sat there, staring at her wrist and completely detached from the flurry of activity which surrounded her, vanishes when I consider what it must have been like for her to wake as she did.

It must have been like finding her father at age six – all over again.

"But we do have some leads that we are currently following," Pete continues. "For starters, I assume you both know a man named Tomás Aviz? We're told he is part-owner of a startup that specializes in high-tech safes." We both nod, silently acknowledging Tomás' job offer between us. "Mr. Aviz has apparently been negotiating with Tudor for months – hoping that they would back the startup. While on the East Coast, he rents office space in Tudor's headquarters. His assistant, Miguel, appears to have returned ahead of his boss to San Francisco. Without disclosing too much, we have sufficient reason to believe that Mr. Aviz is behind this latest threat. If Miguel can be located and convinced to testify, we should be able to secure a warrant to search Mr. Aviz's New York office."

I watch the proverbial wheels turn in Mary's head as she absorbs this information.

"Is there cause to believe the condition for Tudor backing Aviz was keeping me away from Valois?" she asks.

Having finished his last bite of pad Thai, John responds. "Yes, there is. Over the last two decades, Tudor has repeatedly tried to buy out your father's company – never succeeding. It's quite possible they're responsible for the ongoing labor dispute, but we haven't been able to fully link them to it. Someone reported last week that Tomás' assistant Miguel was drunkenly spouting off in a Brooklyn bar about how Tudor was finally going to acquire Stuart Technologies."

She leans heavily back into her chair, the day having taken its toll. Not much food has made its way from her plate to her mouth, but I decide not to mention it. If she doesn't feel hungry, I'm not going to push her to eat. Not tonight.

John and Pete stand up and walk toward the door, once more letting us know that they will be outside if we need anything and that they will keep us notified should anything change.

I shut and lock the door as they exit, knowing they have a key if they need to come in later. A small thing, surely – and perhaps entirely ineffectual – but I'm willing to try anything to help Mary feel safe tonight.

Still slumped in her chair, she hasn't moved. I return to the table, sit down on the edge of my chair and reach for her hand. When she looks up, I inhale from relief. It isn't terribly late, the sun having only just set, but I assume my own fatigue mirrors what I see in the lines of her face.

"Let's go to bed," I urge, standing and pulling her up alongside me. "I won't leave you alone tonight."

* * *

For an unfamiliar bed, this one lends itself well to sleep. I feel surprisingly rested as I stretch out my arm and find the space next to me empty. I don't know the last time I spent two nights sharing a bed with anyone – much less someone I hadn't actually _spent _the night with. As much as the one bed necessitates sharing, I can't say I would push for anything else if it didn't. I don't know how she feels about it, but I know I'm not ready for her to be alone yet.

If that means I get to hold her in my arms while she sleeps, then so be it.

Sitting up, I realize that I can hear the shower running in the next room. Standing with her under the water yesterday, my only thought was of dispelling the shock from her system. Today, not so much. I rest my head against the headboard and close my eyes, trying to think of anything else, but it only makes matters worse. Instead, I vividly remember the outline of her frame from the other night, barely concealed by the slip she wore under her dress – and the smooth skin that rested beneath that slip. I force myself to open my eyes, determined not to need a shower of a colder variety when she's finished.

Thankfully, the water turns off, helping me finally to switch my thoughts elsewhere. _It's Wednesday, right?_ I've lost track – too many events and too little structure have resulted in days that bleed together. No one expects us back in the city until Friday at the earliest, but I have no idea what we'll do for the next two days. Work, I suppose. Or maybe she'll read. I saw her pack that absurdly thick novel into her bag before we left the house. I glance over at the clock, its electric numbers telling me that we have risen early – 6:52.

_Seriously, what are we going to do all day?_

"You're certainly deep in thought for someone who just woke up," her voice sounds next to me and I startle a little at it. I'm beginning to realize that she has the ability to sneak up on me in more ways than one – I never seem to hear her steps. I turn my head and get a good look at her. Hair damp and thrown back over her shoulders. Shorts and some sort of loose shirt. I'm sure there's a more technical term for it. All I know is that I like how it falls.

"I was thinking about you," I admit, honest but not fully so. She blushes as my eyes wander over her, appearing a bit more at ease this morning. I lean forward to grasp for her hand, encouraging her to join me and snagging her waist as she descends.

"Francis!" She playfully bats at my hands, but doesn't attempt to get away. Both of us sprout smiles, basking in our enjoyment of this simple moment together and briefly casting aside all that has followed us here. When she stops her squirming, settling into her splayed position across my legs with my arm cinched around her middle, I seize hold of her lips. She responds, eagerly meeting my every movement with an equally enthralling one of her own.

_A guy could definitely get used to this._

Tearing herself away for air, she sets her forehead against mine. I take the opportunity to draw out our closeness, nudging my nose along hers. My mind refuses to entertain any thought other than her tantalizing nearness. Making their way to her jaw and down her neckline, my lips set to work. It satisfies me to hear the small gasps that escape her mouth, knowing that I'm the reason for their existence.

Returning to her lips, I know I should put a stop to what I'm starting – but I can't bring myself to do so. The taste of her demands to be savored. I reach to reposition her, to shift her body so I can have more direct access.

A knock sounds at the front door. Groaning, I reluctantly let her break away and sit upright. She runs a hand through her slightly disheveled hair and wets her lips, trying to remove any signs of what we've been doing. Leaning over to kiss my head, she slips her feet off the bed and onto the floor. "I'll get that," she says raspily, looking back over her shoulder as she travels toward the bedroom door. "You should get dressed."

The door closes behind her and I shortly hear John and Pete's voices join hers in the next room. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. Grabbing some clothing from my bag, I head toward the bathroom. Turns out I need that shower.

* * *

Their chatter drops off as I enter the main area, John and Pete greeting me and Mary rising to pour me a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchen. I sense I've tread into a conversation they might not want me to hear, which goads me a little.

"What have I missed?" I ask as I seat myself, hoping they'll disclose fully what they have been discussing. Mary sets the mug down in front of me and herself in the chair to my right.

"Not too much," Pete begins. His tone reflects a certain level of hesitance, which matches his eyes as they look between his partner and Mary. "We were just relaying that the San Francisco Police Department located Miguel last night and, from what he shared, we were able to secure what we needed for a warrant."

"All that's left," John chimes in. "Is to determine when to search Tomás' office."

I reach for one of the bagels near the middle of the table, dragging it back to my plate and adding some cream cheese to it. Maybe they're not hiding anything, after all. Maybe I'm just paranoid after all that has happened.

"What," I start as I swallow my first bite. "What thoughts do you have so far?"

The three of them exchange glances before Mary speaks evenly. "I have offered to go to dinner with Tomás on Friday night to give them enough time and to keep him from interfering."

I nearly choke on the second bite of my breakfast, which has come close to lodging itself in my throat. "You must be joking," I sputter. "He wants to secure his company's future by selling you out."

"That is why you must agree to our plan. He won't suspect anything if I go to him and request dinner to discuss his generous offer further – he'll think I've played directly into his hand."

My frustration mounts as I listen to a brief summary of the plan they've drafted in my absence.

"The plan is madness!" I attempt to keep my voice stable. "I walked into your bedroom the other morning – I've seen how he can get to you if he wants. You're asking me to leave you with him? You know you can't trust him. No, when we get out of here, the last thing I'll do is let you go anywhere alone."

"But if I don't go alone, there's risk to whoever goes with me. I can't allow that to happen – not to you, not to your family. Think of your brothers." Fear stares back at me from the depths of her eyes. These men have taken her life and left a crippling terror in its place for too long.

"I won't leave you alone – this is not negotiable!" She looks stunned and I realize I'm speaking quite loudly, largely unnecessary as no one is more than three feet away from me in this moment. John and Pete have shrunk back, prudently recognizing the need to keep out of our argument.

"Mary, I … " I falter, wanting to speak aloud of how I can't let anything happen to her; how I can't begin to consider what Tomás might do to her if he has any idea of the concurrent search at his office. She reaches for me, taking hold of my hand and meeting my eyes.

"I know," she whispers, softly tracing circles into the back of my hand. Sighing, she resigns, "If you insist I not be alone, then you'll have to come with me. They need a good window for Tomás to be out of the way at a time when few people will be in the building to see them."

I nod and hear John speak across from me, but I can't bring myself to look away from her. "We will put in a call to our supervisor to make sure he thinks this to be an option worth pursuing. If he does, we will have you contact Mr. Aviz by phone this afternoon. Is that all right with you, Ms. Stuart?"

She purses her lips. "That will be fine," she mumbles. "Thanks, John."

Once again, they return to their posts outside, leaving us at the table. At some point, I should probably finish my breakfast – my bagel half-eaten, my coffee long cold.

But none of that matters when I feel Mary's hand in mine, trembling.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Yes, the chapter title in the system does say, "Part One." The entirety of it wound up being 9k words in my first draft. While the first half was ready to go, the second half needs a wee bit more editing before I'm ready to hit the publish button. "Part Two" picks up at the end here and is still in Francis' voice. It will be up tomorrow at the latest. I'm also hoping to respond personally to reviews this afternoon. It's been so wonderful to watch you engage with the story – it's a beast, but it's _my_ beast and I love it. :)

**Disclaimer**: As always, I've borrowed most of the characters and several strands of dialogue from "Reign" – this time from episodes 103-107. Those things are not mine. The plot is. As are John and Pete. You're jealous, aren't you? ;)


	7. FIVE: To offer refuge to (Part Two)

"I don't know about you," I speak softly so as not to startle her, rapping my knuckles lightly against her open office door. "But today has not been a very productive one for me."

She looks up and offers a weary smile. "I know what you mean," she agrees, fiddling with her pen and resting her cheek against the heel of her hand. "There is simply too much to wrap my head around, especially when I can't focus to begin with."

I nudge the door shut and move over to the window, twisting the blinds closed. My visit to her office is purely personal. She hasn't been out of my sight for days and it seems odd to have been without her these last few hours. Something in me needs to know she's hanging in there. I intend to ask both how she is and expect an honest answer. It might not be necessary to shutter the blinds, but I know she dislikes any public display of vulnerability. Surely, she won't want to be seen as people walk by – and it also ensures Kenna understands my expectation that she play guard dog and hold everyone at bay.

Since she made the phone call to Tomás on Wednesday afternoon, I've tried to give Mary every opportunity to back out, but she's stubborn, this one. So headstrong once she makes up her mind.

Stepping to the side of the desk, I pull her up out of her seat and loop my arms around her waist, my forearms angled down and resting across her hips.

"I know you're uncertain about tonight," I tell her. She leans into me, her head falling against my chest. I bring her body closer to mine, tightening my grip. "But they've assured me – and remember, I'm the tough sell here." A chuckle escapes at my attempt to bring humor to our circumstances. "They assure me everything will be fine, that the restaurant will be secure and that we will both be safe."

"But what if … " I cut her off, holding a finger to her lips. While in Vermont these last few days, we discussed every concern, every contingency. There's no need to dredge any of it back up at this point.

"Everything will be fine. We'll eat dinner, they'll search his office, and we'll finally get to go home. You'll see." She drops her head directly back from its place under my chin to eye me skeptically as I finish speaking. I move a hand up to her neck, my fingers hiding beneath her hair – tangling their way into the dark curls.

I tilt my head down and catch her lower lip between my own. Only meant as a gesture of reassurance, she surprises me with her eager response in deepening the kiss. She unwillingly releases me as her phone signals an incoming call.

"Let it go to voicemail," I urge. "Why don't we get out of here?" One of her brows pops up as she cranes her neck to gauge my level of seriousness. I shrug. "It's Friday. We're both struggling to stay focused. Let's just go."

She answers by stepping out of my arms to grab her bag, stuffing back into it a few items from the day. I turn to reopen the blinds and wander out the door to inform Kenna that we will both be leaving, even though it is only early afternoon.

I feel Mary's hand brush up against mine before her fingers entwine with my own.

"Let's go."

* * *

As the driver pulls to a stop at the curb, I marvel at Tomás choosing a Mediterranean bistro in Central Park West to dine at this evening. It certainly isn't my style – sleek, modern decor with classic cuisine in little portions. My mother would love it.

We ascend the steps, her hand at my elbow. If it were any other night, I'd allow myself to be distracted by the lacy red dress she wears, but I know I have to keep myself in check tonight. It will take everything I have to keep her calm enough to get through this meal without giving anything away.

Checking in with the _maître'd_, we are escorted to where Tomás and his colleague, a Mr. Vincent LaConte, await our arrival. I take a moment to look at Mary, making sure she's ready to walk into this dinner. She takes a deep breath and nods, slipping her hand down to mine and squeezing to indicate her determination to move forward with the evening.

"Ah, Mary! Francis!" Tomás receives us enthusiastically, shaking my hand and offering Mary's a light kiss upon her knuckles. He then turns to introduce his companion. "Vincent, this is Francis Valois and Mary Stuart; Francis and Mary, please meet my business partner, Vincent LaConte." We exchange the required handshakes and sit, our knees finding their way beneath the cream-colored linens.

"Do not worry about appetizers," Tomás says, pointing to our menus. "We have already taken the liberty of ordering a few of our favorites." The waiter returns shortly, bearing a bottle of Riesling requested by Vincent, and takes our orders.

Polite chit-chat tends to be my least favorite part of any social gathering, small or large. In this case, however, it seems to be the safest course of action, so I work hard at it. I ask Vincent what role he plays at Aviz. I even hold my own discussing San Francisco's finest attributes with Tomás as he laments over his desire and inability to spend more time at home, something for which I'm impressed with myself because I _loathe_ San Francisco.

"You should guard her close, Valois," Vincent drawls in a manner that makes me never want to let Mary out of my sight. I don't like his use of my last name, as though we have a long, chummy history. He laughs as he jokes, "Or someone might steal her away!" At least I hope he's joking, both because Mary has gone rigid in the seat next to me and to prevent me from doing something I probably shouldn't in such a nice establishment.

"Have you set a date for the wedding?" he queries, taking note of Mary's ring after the appetizers have been laid before us. I doubt he knows as little as he lets on, but I play along. I sense her breathing more easily anyway, her hand alighting on my leg under the table.

"We were thinking sometime in the fall, perhaps a year from September. Isn't that right, darling?" Glancing over at Mary, I see her business smile well at work as she sips from her water glass.

"Yes, though it does seem so far away at times," her eyes lock on mine as she replaces the glass next to her plate. I see so much in those depths that I can't begin to entertain tonight. "So much of it will naturally fall to Francis' mother to plan, particularly if I am on the West Coast for a year or two while assisting with my father's company."

"Of course we would love for the wedding to be sooner," I concede to the men. "But you know how society engagements go – so much to consider and show off with the affair that they require years to orchestrate all of the details." I find Mary's gaze again and drop a wink, chuckling. "Perhaps I can convince her to just elope with me one of these days and avoid the whole thing altogether." _Wouldn't that be nice?_

The two men join in our laughter before Tomás takes a more serious tone, shifting our conversation away from innocuous topics and toward the reason for our meal.

"Should she decide to come to San Francisco and work for Aviz, I fear it would put a strain on your relationship, Francis. Particularly as we would hope to have her as a long-term employee," he states clearly. His smile reflects an iciness that I don't particularly like. As I've mentioned to Mary before, I simply do not trust the man. His colleague, this Vincent character, comes across as an even smarmier human being. For the first time tonight, I do truly wonder what I've allowed her to walk into by coming here.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I excuse myself to take a look at it, citing some of the Valois staff working late on legal matters. It's a text message from David, the point person for tonight's operation: 'We've gotten into the building. Beginning search.'

I tuck the device back away and wait for a good time to re-enter the conversation.

"Ms. Stuart, we do so hope you will choose to come work for us," rattles off Vincent. "Tomás has shared with me so much of your history. It would truly be an honor to work with such a natural talent in our company's fledgling years."

Not many words can be inserted edgewise, as Mary unobtrusively mines for information about the position and the city, for details of how much opportunity she would have to engage with Stuart Tech. As expected, Tomás and Vincent flatter her in every possible way – offering everything in their power to sway her decision. All I can do is sit and listen and hope that, just across town, the search team finds what it needs to put this ordeal behind us and bring the responsible party to account.

"All I want," I manage to interject at a rare lull. "Is to make sure Mary is taken care of." Assuming the dutiful fiancé must be brought to the forefront of my behavior at some point, I layer on the concerned charm and extend my fingers so they can rest across the back of hers where they have moved to lay upon the table. "If she decides she must go, I understand her reasons and will be at her side as she makes that decision. I wish there were more we could do at Valois, but it appears our options are particularly limited right now."

I spy a little moisture gathering in her eyes as I turn in my chair to get a better look at her. The weight of the evening has begun to settle on her, the reality of just what is at stake again threatening to accost her heart with fear. I've seen that look too many times since Monday to not recognize it.

"But we'll figure that out if we come to it, won't we, darling?" I ask, letting my eyes match hers and linger for a moment as the waiter delivers our entrées. I want to be sure she can continue with this, searching for even just a small sign that she hasn't yet given up.

For the second time, my phone buzzes. This time it reads, 'Finishing up. Good chance your dinner companions might already know what is up, as staff member just questioned what we were up to. Sending reinforcements. Stall leaving as long as possible.'

A surprise trace of fear works its way up my spine. If they are sending reinforcements, that must mean they don't believe us – Mary, in particular – to be safe. I force myself to remain calm, knowing that the moment Mary sees me spook even in the slightest, all her work tonight will be lost. Our food provides a welcome diversion, the four of us enjoying our plates in silence and limited conversation for the first time since our arrival. Somehow even the others guests in the dining room keep their voices to a delightful, subdued hum.

I offer to order another bottle of wine, but Tomás and Vincent decline, claiming an early flight back to San Francisco and the need to get back to their hotel to prepare. Scrambling for something to keep them there, I come up empty. It has been a good twenty minutes since my last text from David. _How long does it take to get extra men here?_

They finish their last bites and Tomás sits back in his chair.

"So, Mary," he begins, his expression intent. "If I may be so bold, may I ask your intentions for this offer? It has been on the table for several weeks now. Surely, you must know in what direction you're leaning."

Vincent, too, has turned his full attention to Mary. Mary, wide-eyed at being put on the spot, dabs her napkin at her mouth and looks to me before answering.

"Well, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a tempting offer." Her words measured, I can tell she's trying to draw out the revelation that she has no intention of taking the job. "The opportunity alone to be close to Sacramento again would be something out of a dream," she gushes. I can't help the commentary that runs through my own mind. _Or out of a nightmare_. The bluff should come next, if she continues as planned.

"My father's company, however, cannot replace either the family I have lost or the family I have found with Francis and his parents. To me, that means the world right now." She recites her lines like a professional, adding in just the right touch of earnest emotion needed to sell it.

"Even if they cannot help at this time, I want to trust that they will be able to do so in the future. I have only recently begun to put down long-overdue roots here in the city – I did not know that you hoped I might stay on for many years to come, Tomás. As lovely and as generous as the offer is, I think it very unlikely I will be relocating to join you at Aviz." A sympathetic smile turns its way up at her lips. "I am so sorry, Tomás. I do so very much appreciate everything you've offered to me and to the memory of my father. I can never repay your kindness."

As she speaks, I keep my eyes trained on Tomás to see how he reacts. Whatever he does know or suspect, his expression doesn't give anything away. Vincent, too, comes across a stoically unflappable personage. I'd be impressed if I didn't know they plan to trade Mary's last link to her father as a bargaining chip to further their own interests.

"I am sorry to hear that, Mary," expresses Tomás. "Though I do certainly understand the desire to keep your family close, after all that happened with your father." The way he says 'father' makes me want to leap across the table and hit him squarely in the jaw. He's well-aware of the game he's playing with Mary and I feel my blood start to churn. Hopefully, the night will end soon. I'm not sure how much more of this underhanded taunting Mary can take before she cracks under the strain of it all. Thankfully, I've just received one last text from David, relaying that reinforcements have arrived.

"Ah, well," Tomás continues, hastily scrawling a signature on the check the waiter has just dropped by. "I'm sure you will inform me if you change your mind. You would be a welcome addition to our staff at any time. Please let me know if you are ever in San Francisco." He signals with a dip of his head to Vincent, who pushes his chair back. "It's time we were headed back to our hotel."

Tomás, too, pushes back from the table and rises. We stand up with them, shaking hands and exchanging goodbyes. And then – just like that – they're gone.

I hear Mary breathe audibly to my left. "Are you all right?" I ask, dropping a light kiss onto her temple. She nods that she is as she drinks the last of her wine. Soon enough, we'll be on our way home, where I hope she'll finally be able to relax – this whole week and its terrors behind her.

"I'm just going to use the ladies' room and then we can head home," she says, getting up from the table and looking behind her toward the entrance, where the restroom resides. "Meet me at the front in five minutes?"

She drags her hand across my shoulder blades as she walks away. I pull out my phone to check my email while I wait, thumbing through several from my father about getting us back on track to meet our deadlines. Something tells me next week will be _fun_.

After a few minutes, I slide out of my seat and make my way toward the front door. I know it has been at least five minutes, but Mary is nowhere to be seen.

"Mary, where are you?" I mutter to myself, standing by the door and watching as people both enter and leave through it. Looking around, I have a hard time stilling my foot, which seems to want to tap in impatience tonight. I am really looking forward to being home again.

My phone dings in my pocket, having been switched out of its silent mode. I reach for it. As I glimpse the words on the screen, my heart clenches and my feet move quickly through the door and out into the night – 'Don't panic, but Mary is outside with us.'

I step out to the curb and see a crowd gathered around a few officers who have Tomás and Vincent pinned up against a police car. My eyes frantically scan the sidewalk for one person, hunting for the red of her dress. Off to the side, away from the crowd and close to the building, I spot her. An officer talks with her, presumably taking her statement from the notebook in his hand. I still have no idea what happened or why she appears to be hyperventilating and my thoughts swim as a result, with only one pressing to the forefront: I want to be at her side.

Pushing my way over, I arrive as the man hands her a business card and walks toward the source of the commotion. She has begun to fall back toward the wall when I catch her up in my arms, her tremors spreading out into my body. "It's all right," I whisper into her hair. I can't seem to hold her close enough. "I'm here."

* * *

The middle of the night finds me in my room, not yet ready for sleep. Instead, I take the opportunity to unpack a few things from our time away – trying my best to settle into the idea that we're back home and finally safe within its walls. The menial nature of the task prevents me from focusing too much on what Mary revealed of the ten minutes that elapsed between her leaving me at our table and my finding her outside of the restaurant.

Stashing my socks in a drawer, I shut it and cross the room to retrieve shoes from my bag and return them to my closet. _A gun. _Mary's words come back to me as my feet shuffle across the floorboards. _He intercepted her as she left the restroom and threatened her with a gun. _

I pick up the shoes and turn toward the closet. My jaw sets itself, teeth grinding together at the thought that Tomás had physically tried to abduct her because she didn't want to work for him in San Francisco – therefore keeping him from fulfilling his end of the bargain with Tudor. If the officers hadn't been busy wrestling him and Vincent into a car for transport to the nearest jail for holding, I would have pounded into at least one of them without any sort of hesitation or mercy. _How dare they?_

I set the pair on a low shelf and return to empty the last of my bag, moving it from my bed to my desk and making a mental note to have Stephen return it to storage in the morning.

The door creaks open behind me. I look over my shoulder to see Mary, bashfully standing in its opening in a thin nightgown. With one glance at her, I see her evident exhaustion, but she seems to be seeking more than just rest. "I couldn't sleep," her voice drifts across the room, her eyes darting about.

"Mary – " I don't quite know what to say, but I begin to close the distance between us. She has a way of leaving my mind a bit foggy.

"Why?" she asks, suddenly flailing against me with her arms as I arrive in front of her. Her tone grows louder and more insistent with each word that follows. "Why did you come with me tonight? You didn't know those other men would be there – "

"Mary, stop!" I interject gently but firmly, trying to corral her flying arms without hurting her. She pushes me around the room, closer to my bed.

"He knew what he was doing – he would have hurt you if you had gotten in his way! Why would you do something so stupid?" Every word laced with desperation, she verges once more on the brink of breaking down completely, tiny fists assaulting my chest. I find an opening and affix my hands on both sides of her neck, forcing her to still if only for a moment. Before I can catch them, four words slip out of my mouth.

"Because I love you!"

They surprise even me, though I know from the instant they leave my lips that they are undoubtedly true.

"What?" I feel her body go limp under my fingers, her confusion surfacing. She shakes her head, quickly re-tracing our conversation to uncover the origins of my declaration.

"Because it's pretty obvious now that, for you to be safe, we need to be together." The words tumble out and I realize I truly believe them. The only one I trust to keep her safe is _me_.

"But what about your father's determination to control our lives?" she asks, anxiety taking hold again after all that has transpired in the last few hours. I realize that to allow her to continue talking will result only in further worry for her. I make up my mind to prevent her from talking – and I cut her off with a simple kiss.

It amuses me how my action throws her a little, obviously so. I watch as she tries to regain her train of thought, to continue back down her path toward fear. "But what about Valois? And my father's comp–" I wrap my arm around her waist, drawing her to myself this time – the kiss deeper, longer. I refuse to let her be anxious. She's safe. She's with me.

This time, she responds, maddeningly sifting her fingers through the hair at my neck. And, as we pull away from one another, she doesn't say anything.

"There has been entirely too much thinking going on," I remark, holding her eyes for a long moment. I fully intend to keep her distracted, which is why I kiss her again. While I savor the taste of her, I direct us slowly toward my bed. If nothing else, perhaps she'll be able to sleep in here tonight. I warned her against the stubborn need to sleep in her own room, but I won't gloat at her inability to do so – she doesn't need that. Instead, I'll just welcome her into my bed. I've grown quite fond of having her next to me anyway.

As we situate ourselves on top of the covers, she seeks out my mouth, playfully sweeping her tongue at a corner of my upper lip. I sense my self-control beginning to weaken as she hooks her heel around my calf and her nightgown drifts upward, exposing even more of her thigh. If I don't make sure right now that she wants where our bodies are quickly taking us, I won't have the resolve to stop myself.

"Mary," I withdraw just enough to look her in the eye, nose grazing nose. As much as it would be difficult to put my desire for her on hold, I need to know she wants this – that she wants to know me in this way, as I unquestionably want to know her.

"Tell me when you want me to stop."

The request hangs between us, my vision locked on the two amber pools before me. At the pause in activity, oxygen floods in and our breathing slows.

"Never," she replies softly, her voice rife with need. Before I can fully register her consent, she has returned her lips to mine. _Never? _Her teeth tug gently at my lower lip, fingers gliding under my shirt and stroking circles against my skin.

_I think I can accommodate that._

* * *

**Author's Notes**: A special thank you to all of my guest reviewers. Obviously, I can't respond to your comments individually, but I do read and appreciate them greatly! Thank you for sticking out this story with me. In total, I think this chapter was more than 9k words, something I never thought I'd do. This story certainly has taken on a life of its own. It's been really fun to play with stretching the narrative, but I'm also looking forward to getting back to the 16th century! Look for the epilogue (much shorter than the last few chapters, but not necessarily "short") sometime next week. As always, reviews are loved and I enjoy hearing your thoughts! :)

**Disclaimer**: As with the last section, dialogue for this chapter was pulled from episodes 103-107. Those are not mine. Modifications and plot are, as is David's disembodied text-wielding fiend of a character. ;)


	8. Epilogue

It is a rare morning when I wake before Francis does. Typically, I find myself roused from sleep by his way of lazily stroking his fingers back and forth upon my arm, and I often open my eyes to discover him zoned out on something. I've never asked him what he thinks about in those moments between his waking and my own, though perhaps I should.

But the unusual sight before me is something to behold. As I've noticed in my many nights next to him, he has a tendency to sprawl out in the bed, his arms and legs splayed and stretched well beyond his 'half'. I will never complain, however. It _is_ his bed, after all. I have simply become a nightly guest.

Weeks have passed since I last slept alone, that fateful night from which I awoke to a sea of haunting photographs and my heart gripped with fear. The one night I attempted to return to my own bed, to sleeping on my own after nearly a week of waking next to someone else – the night of our dinner with Tomás and Vincent – my feet still brought me to his door, _to him_.

To my great relief, I don't recall any of my nightmares. Francis tells me I have them, regularly. That partly accounts for why he's normally up before I am – my cries awakening him in the night. He says he doesn't mind, that he'd rather have me here with him, but I love when he has the opportunity to rest uninterrupted and do my best to let him for as long as possible.

As quietly as I am able, I fold over the covers and slip out of them, my bare feet coming to rest on the floor. I move toward the desk and pick up my laptop before returning to the bed. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:12, but Francis has yet to stir. His evening with Bash must have taken more out of him than expected, his breathing still even and slow.

I lift the lid of the computer and determine to type soundlessly for as long as I need to. Opening the word processing document I started a few days ago, I peruse what I've already written.

_Dear Dr. Gaines:_

_I appreciate your tolerance of my paper this last spring but, as it didn't fully address my understanding of social groups and their interplay with my life, I feel I owe you – at the least – a continuation. Since I arrived in New York, my grasp on such things has shifted dramatically. _

_Three months ago, I stepped off of a train and into Penn Station, not knowing at all who or what I would find. I even re-read my paper from your class in an effort to wrap my head around the enormity of the task before me. The journey itself has held its share of bumps (and I'm sure you've read about some of them in the national headlines) but aside from all of that, surprisingly, my transition into life here has been nearly effortless. _

_To begin with, I have somehow settled into being 'Mary Stuart'. I'm not sure when it happened, but is has and I am grateful for that. I have people who have known me under other names who now address me as 'Mary' without hesitation and it helps me to think of myself as no one else. The mere idea that what others call me helps define who I am? That idea staggers me, but I find it more and more true as I shed Natalie and Sophie and Amanda and Julia behind me._

It strikes me just how true this is, especially with Francis. Something about how he says my name cuts me to the heart every time. His intonation and affection tell me that he sees me and that he doesn't expect me to be anyone I don't want to be. I smile at his sleeping form, his face smashed against the pillow and his bare back daring to me to reach out and touch it. Our comfort level with one another has always astounded me. Even now, having crossed physical boundaries that often lead to awkward exchanges, it still seems the most natural thing to be together – as if we were always destined for that very end.

Perhaps that is really why I never returned to my own rooms, though I am certain Henry and Catherine won't be as pleased with the development when they return from Montauk next week as we have been. They likely won't appreciate their oldest son co-habitating with me when impressionable little boys reside in the same house. I feel my face's lines shift into a frown and decide to continue with my project rather than mulling over any changes that might loom ahead.

_Work has been a challenge, but an enjoyable one. As long as I am able to immerse myself in the details of our corporate communications structure, I find myself content and my time well utilized. It reveals my inner geek in ways I never thought possible! My co-workers are a mixture of friends, both old and new. Some knew me as a girl, as Amanda; others, in college, as Natalie. All of them realize I'm still figuring out the nuance of who I have become. At the end of the day, they just want to be my friends, and it has been wonderful to have that type of support system surrounding me. It is fascinating that these friends – from the opposite ends of my journey through witness protection – recognize the root 'me' that has always been there. For so long unknown to me, every incarnation of myself has held some piece of the real Mary Stuart. _

The words end and I start typing, lightly tapping the keys to expand on what I meant when I wrote the sentence yesterday afternoon.

_As Natalie, I fell in love with marketing and communication and found good friends who stood by me even when I revealed my chaotic personal history. As Julia, I came to understand my determination to be like my father, to work hard and have control over my own life. As Sophie, I discovered my love of great literature. I still carry each of these things with me today._

_But it was perhaps my earliest days, those days when they called me 'Amanda', that stick with me the most. They were my freest days, the only ones where I was willing to embrace a new family and feel safe because I didn't yet realize all that would chase me for another fifteen years. _

_Even at six, I think I knew there was something unique about Henry and Catherine's son, Francis. Day after day, he exhibited such patience with me as I sought to rid myself of the mental image of my father's lifeless body on the floor of his office in our Sacramento home. Once I emerged from my stupor, he made sure my days were filled with games and treehouses, corny jokes and the sneaking of sweets from the kitchen. He always wanted to protect me, always wanted to be at my side. And he was the only member of the family around whom I felt completely at ease._

_It amazed me then, but it floors me in a much different way now. _

The bed sags next to me, a groan or two sounding from Francis as he turns onto his side to get away from the light pouring into the room through the windows. I smile, close my laptop and make a mental note to finish my letter later while bending over to set the computer on the floor.

"Morning," I hear him grumble behind me as I sit back up against the headboard. He sounds like he could use some water, his voice raspy and hoarse. "I think I drank too much last night."

I hold back my laughter because I can see he's in pain. Instead, I opt to leave the bed and retrieve some aspirin and a glass of water from the bathroom.

His outings with Bash tend to end like this, but at least the two of them make time to talk and be brothers. It has never surprised me that Francis considers Bash a full brother, given how he has stuck by my side through almost all that has happened since I arrived. He's loyal, this one – fiercely loyal and always wanting to do the right thing.

"What was the occasion this time?" I ask, keeping the volume of my voice low as I move to his side of the bed. He struggles to sit up, but eventually manages it. "Here, take this," I offer him the pill and hold the glass to his lips so he can drink. His hand reaches up to take it from me. I hop up on the bed next to him, my legs draped over the edge, and I lean into him to rake my fingers through his curls – hoping it will soothe the hangover, if only a little bit.

"Kenna," he replies, his eyes still barely open. "I've never seen him so torn up over one of our father's conquests before. Apparently, the two of them went out for drinks the other night and she told him _everything_ and, now, he has some insatiable need to save her from her own choices."

"Insatiable, huh?" I tease, knowing his unusual ability to string together substantial words even with a muddy brain. "I take it you drank more than beer, by the looks of it."

He tries to nod, but winces and stops. "Shots. The stupid man wanted to do shots."

As much as I've tried to keep from doing so, I can't help but laugh aloud. His face, combined with the mental image of the two brothers drinking carelessly at the pub, proves more than my attempts at biting my tongue can handle.

A light growl erupts from his chest as he swiftly pins me under himself. The aspirin not yet having taken effect, I watch him grimace. He needs a moment to recover after the sudden movement, especially as it required a little lifting to knock me off my balance.

"You mock my pain, do you?" He speaks the words forcefully before succumbing to laughter himself. Most mornings, his fingers would be tickling my sides by now, resulting in squeals. I assume the kicking and flailing would be too much today, and I must admit that sometimes it's nice just to see how he looks at me – like there's no one else in the world who can hold his attention.

He lowers his head to kiss me. I can taste the soured remnants of what I suspect was once whiskey in his mouth, but I don't care. I felt his absence too keenly last night to care. My attempt to fall asleep without him was a torturous process, but I must have succeeded. I didn't even hear him stumble in and join me in the middle of the night.

"How was your night?" he asks, pulling his lips away from mine. "I was surprised to find you out cold when I came in."

"It was good," I respond, thinking on my night with the girls. "We stayed in – watched a movie, ate popcorn, drank wine. Your sister wanted some help with wedding things, so we tied bows and stuffed envelopes and affixed seals while we watched."

He settles back onto his side, propped up on his elbow next to me. "Fun," he remarks dryly. I suspect the aspirin has begun to work, with his eyes a little more alert and his sense of humor returning.

I sigh before continuing, not knowing what my problem is. It _was_ an enjoyable evening. It was just decidedly lacking in the one person I never seem to tire of. "Kenna ducked out around 9:30, presumably to meet your father somewhere; Greer talked quite a bit about some guy named Julien, whom her family wants her to get to know better, but then she left around 10:30 and I'm fairly certain she went to see Leith because I know for a fact that he got off early." I know I'm rambling at this point, but I always want to share nearly every detail of any time we spend apart. "I'm not sure who Greer thinks she is fooling at this point – it's obvious she and Leith are together even though she's actively searching for a more 'respectable' husband."

"She knows Leith's family has money, right?" he interrupts. "That he simply decided he didn't want it?"

"Yes," I reply. "But she isn't after money. Her family values respect, remember? And Leith choosing to be a baker rather than following in his father's footsteps is apparently not a 'respectable' life decision." Having answered, I work to trace the conversation back to where I left off with relaying the events of the evening. "Now where was I?" I wonder aloud.

"Oh!" I exclaim, remembering. "After the other two left, Aylee and Lola and I played card games until midnight, when they took off. I really like them, Aylee in particular. There are times when I get the sense Lola is still hung up on you," I tease. "So, you know, I just do my best to treat her as the good friend she is and not hold that against her."

I finish speaking and glance over to find Francis intently staring at me, spying some concern written into his face. When he speaks, his words come out soft but strong.

"You know you have nothing to worry about, right? Lola and I dated so long ago that there is nothing between us. I've never sensed anything, at least." He pauses, gauging my reaction. "I think what she hangs onto more, what she can't quite find a way to express, is what happened with Collin. I'm glad you're her friend."

He draws me into his arms and I nod into his shoulder. I am well-aware that I have nothing at all to worry about, except maybe about how Henry will respond to the revelation that his son and 'the asset' are not merely faking their relationship these days. That could certainly be interesting.

"What are we going to do when your parents come home?" I ask without warning, taking the question from my own thoughts rather than from our conversation. We have avoided talking about the subject as of late, choosing instead to revel in the newness of sharing life together. I realize we might be avoiding it again this morning, as Francis begins to nibble on the top of my shoulder – in time working his way toward my neck and up to my earlobe. My mind already has started to drift with the sensation.

"Let me take care of that," he whispers huskily in my ear. "For now, I want to do something else."

* * *

_The Valois family is not a perfect family, to be sure. I constantly come across things that aren't pleasant, namely my relationship with Henry. In spite of it all, however, I know that I am loved and that they have welcomed me fully for as long as I desire to stay. Catherine has never faltered in her love for me; Elisabeth continues to be the sister I remember as a child; the young boys have become dear little friends to play games with and tell stories to. For the first time, I feel as if I fit with a family for more reason than because they provide a roof over my head. _

_When I was younger, this family was the only family I had. The box of letters I received from Henry and Catherine, though they contained some frightful omissions of family happenings, revealed that even more when I read them one by one after the last trial. Today, they are family for another reason – because Francis has become my family in a very different way. Today, I belong to the family because my heart belongs to Francis. _

_While Elisabeth always seemed a sister, Francis never seemed a brother – something I will forever be grateful for, I suppose. Instead, he was always more than that. I think part of me has always loved him. There is a good chance I sought for him in every city and every name I took as my own, every persona I constructed. Something within me clung to the hope that, someday, I would find my way back to him. _

_These past few months, he has watched each day yield something new about who I am and as I have embraced those things I once thought were just part of identities discarded behind me as I moved from place to place. The most incredible part is that he loves me more deeply with every discovery. He graciously gives me the freedom to figure out who I am and the person I am when I'm with him is the most natural version of myself I have ever known. I don't have to worry. I can just be. _

Sitting in my office, I finish typing the remainder of the letter and print the pages. I fold them and tuck them into an envelope, taking care to seal and address it properly to the department of sociology at UCLA. Lastly, I affix a stamp to the top right corner.

A light knock raps at my door and I look up as Kenna peeks in. "Henry would like to see you and Francis in his office, as soon as possible," she relays. "Francis has already headed over."

I shake my head, annoyed at the request because meetings with Henry never turn out well. "Okay," I agree. Tucking the envelope in my purse, I reach for my sweater and walk out the door. With the labor dispute at Stuart and the incident with Aviz and Tudor behind us, I can't help but rack my brain for his reason to see us. _What could he possibly want to talk about?_

* * *

We walk into the park. Francis holds my hand in his. I feel his eyes on me, trying to figure out if I'm all right. "Are you breathing easier now?" he asks. After Henry announced his latest plan for expanding Valois and its legacy, Francis swept me quickly out the door and downstairs for a walk in the open air. He knows me well. Only with the steps away from the office has my heart rate begun to return to normal, which leaves me to puzzle over how Henry uncovered our sleeping arrangement.

"I still don't want to go back to the office," I express. "He'll want answers."

Ambling along the path, Francis looks at me and speaks. "My father didn't pose our relationship as a question, but I will. Do you want this?"

"I want you!" I insist. "But I'm afraid of your father's expectations that I might actually one day _be_ family. He wants me to start trouble for my father's company before I even inherit it! And what if my efforts fail? We only just got past that nasty labor business! What if no one supports my bid for Tudor?" The frenzy builds, tightening in my chest. "They might be desperate enough to declare bankruptcy but surely they aren't so far gone they would choose a neophyte to run things – particularly one who will soon own a company they have long attempted to buy out and ruin."

"Everyone with half a brain will support you," he counters gently. "They know what happened was wrong and they know that you are incredibly talented. They would be lucky to have you at the helm." He pauses, side-stepping a puddle from last night's storm. "I know you want time to sort this out, to assess what each company has to offer, and maybe we have time before Tudor officially needs to be bought out before you need to give an answer – but _we_ are a separate issue."

His voice grows earnest, eager, and I feel my anxiety recede. "And this is our chance, right now, to be together without anyone or anything standing in our way."

I have to remind myself to breathe when he talks like this. There's something in the way he voices his desire to protect this thing between us that renders me mostly speechless.

"What are you saying?" I manage to mutter. Henry both wants me to make a bid for Tudor and _actually_ marry his son. The only way to describe these two ideas appropriately at this particular moment in time is 'more than overwhelming.' Even with Francis helping to calm me, I can barely think straight. He needs to tell me explicitly what he's considering, what I'm missing.

"Move out with me," he says, our footfalls slowing. "And we will figure out what we should do with Tudor and the whole marriage thing later."

My heart nearly stops at his words, the sensation similar to the rush of adrenaline I felt at his fake proposal nearly a month ago. He doesn't rush into things recklessly, like I do. While the circumstances have again changed, I know that this decision – this thought – must be something he has been mulling over for a while now. Unfortunately, I can't seem to get past the business implications just yet.

"You mean, trick your father, the head of a billion-dollar company – and our boss, by the way – into believing that I agree with him?"

"Yes, we should deceive him," he responds. "It's for a very good cause. He will leave us alone if he thinks we are in agreement."

The idea of being out of Henry's reach at home is alluring, to be sure.

"And you won't pressure me later, about Tudor?" My one lingering fear is that I won't be able to take this back, that my opinion won't matter in the end – especially as Francis has recently expressed his thoughts that acquiring Tudor might be an incredible opportunity.

"Oh, I'll pressure you and listen to you and argue with you and love you until the day I die. I think that's unavoidable at this point, don't you?" He smiles and my insides melt. Every time he tells me he loves me, that he's committed to me, it bowls me over as if it were the first time. "Together, we'll decide what's right for both companies." He stops next to a bench and beckons for me to sit, joining me on the seat seconds later. He picks up my hand and looks into my eyes to make sure I hear what he has to say. "Move out with me. Someplace we can call our own. Something simple, maybe a loft close to the office – not even big enough to entertain because we have my parents' house for that. We won't be interrupted by Stephen in the mornings anymore and we eliminate the opportunity for one of my brothers to walk in on us in a compromising position."

"The doors lock, you know," I mumble under my breath, grimacing in horror at the idea of Charles or little Henry walking in on us. My heart relaxes at his words, however. As he always has, he seeks a means of offering me shelter – even from his father. "I like that word, 'we' – and 'our'." A stupid smile spreads across my face as I see how much he wants this.

"Move out with me," he requests one more time. "Say 'yes'."

"Yes!" I cry out, the answer exploding forth from somewhere within me. "Yes!" I repeat, laughing loudly at my own burst of enthusiasm.

He grins like an idiot and kisses me senseless, there in the park on that bench. The air warms around us as the sun continues to climb into the summer sky and, after a while, it becomes too much for us, so we reluctantly separate our mouths and decide to get lunch.

"What do you say?" he challenges. "Last one to the café pays?" He smirks because he knows that his legs are longer and that, today, his shoes far surpass mine in their sensibility. Heels, no matter how comfortable, are not made to hurry through a busy park – much less as part of a race. Before I can tell him 'no' and that I'll pay regardless, he's running away from the bench and fading into the distance among the masses.

I pick myself up, take a deep breath and test the stability of my heels before I take off after him.

* * *

On the way back to the office after lunch, we stop by the mailbox down the block. Francis looks at me questioningly, his eyebrows raised, but he doesn't ask questions. I drop my letter inside and snag his hand while we walk the last steps in a sweet, easy quiet. As we ride the elevator up to the ninth floor, I remember the last section of the letter and smile – every part of it even more true than when I wrote it this morning.

_Primarily, I write to tell you that I have found my last harbor. I thought it might be a city, or a family unit, or in the simple act of starting over for the long-hoped-for final time – but I was wrong. My harbor has been the same since I was six. It is the man who now sleeps beside me every night; who comes in jubilantly drunk after a night out with his half-brother; who takes his younger brothers to cotillion and to roam on the beach; who designs bridges though he will never see them built; who loves and respects his parents, whether or not they deserve it; who goes out of his way to make sure I feel safe and secure, protected and loved, on a daily basis – but who also does not fear going a round or two with me when we disagree. He is a dear friend and a man I could easily make a home with for the rest of my life. Francis is my harbor._

_Thank you for giving me a language to understand what I lacked, if only so that I could more deeply appreciate what it was like to find and be defined by such social constructs. They have altered the course of my life. Best of luck with the coming term. _

_Sincerely,  
Mary Stuart_

* * *

**Author's Note**: In preparing to write the epilogue, I re-read every chapter and it took me several days to get through the whole thing – which left me incredibly grateful for each of you. Thank you all for coming along on crazy, long-winded journey and reading thousands upon thousands (upon thousands!) of my words! I've been blown away by the story's reception and do so hope you enjoyed how I chose to close this part of the Harbor universe. As long as I can hold to it, I'm going to try to take a break from writing for at least the next few weeks (though I may dabble in returning to the 16th century). Perhaps when summer rolls around, I'll have the opportunity to revisit our friends in New York and tell some more of their stories ... You'll have to wait and see! :)

**Disclaimer**: Quite a bit of dialogue has been taken from "Fated" (108), the words of which are not my own except where they have been altered from the original lines. They belong to CBS/The CW and, of course, Laurie McCarthy. I just like the chance to play!


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